


Boundless Love

by Aethelflaed



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Adam and The Them (Good Omens), Ancient Rome, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Bickering, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Celts, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Thinks They're Together, Falling In Love, First Love, Fluff and Angst, Happy Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Heartbreak, Historical, Holidays, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Pining, Preparing for the Apocalypse, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Sharing a Bed, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snowed In, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), True Love, Wordcount: Over 50.000, sort of a mixed bag now that i'm looking at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 54,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: Some people think that every choice we make creates a universe.These are a few of that boundless infinity.Seventeen stories of an angel, a demon, and an ineffable love.Seventeen stories of laughter and heartbreak, pain and joy.Seventeen chances to fall in love.Written for the 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 287
Kudos: 286





	1. The True Meaning of Saturnalia

**Author's Note:**

> 01 - Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ancient Rome: After months of working alongside Caligula, Crowley is NOT in the mood for another festival, no matter what Aziraphale says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01 - Mistletoe

_Some people think that every choice we make creates a universe._

—

Corrupting an already corrupt emperor turned out to be the most difficult job Crowley had ever received.

He tried reporting Downstairs that the emperor was firmly on their side already, no Temptation needed.

_Stop making excuses and get back to work, Crowley._

So he sent reports of the emperor’s failed invasion of Britannia and subsequent war against the ocean.

_Stop making things up, Crowley._

Finally, he took credit for Emperor Gaius’s plans to desecrate the Temple in Jerusalem, even though they’d been underway long before he showed up.

_Good job, Crowley, can’t wait to hear what you Tempt him to next._

“I mean, even if I was _going_ to desecrate the Temple, I wouldn’t do it with a giant tacky statue of old Baby Boots, you know?” Crowley grumbled over his fifth cup of wine.

“Of course I know,” Aziraphale said with something approaching sympathy.

As the job stretched into its fourth month with no sign of release, the one consolation had been the dinners with Aziraphale. Every third day, like clockwork, the angel would track him down wherever he was sulking and drag him to a new restaurant, or a play, or some other silly distraction.

It was…friendly- _ish._ Amicable, he supposed. Sober angel and drunken demon. Not that Aziraphale didn’t want to drink, but there had to be that _separation,_ that sense that even though they shared a table, they weren’t _together._ Enemies, meeting under a flag of truce.

Sometimes Crowley caught himself wishing there was something more…substantial to it. Some crack in the walls between, them, some genuine connection. Still, each got something out of the exchange. Crowley had someone to drunkenly rant his stress to, and Aziraphale had an excuse to try…

“What even is this, anyway?” Crowley poked at one of the strips of meat.

“Roast flamingo tongue.”

“I _hate_ this city!” Crowley slumped onto his couch as dramatically as possible. It was a well-practiced gesture – arms and legs going in every direction for maximum effect, but not a single drop of wine spilled. “One week, I was supposed to be here _one week_ , and now it’s almost _next year!”_

“Where would you rather be?” Aziraphale reclined on a couch to his right, perpendicular, so each looked at the table and not at each other. That was the theory; in practice, as the angel picked up one of the disgusting delicacies and took a bite, Crowley could see every bit of pleasure blooming across his face. He found he couldn’t look away, and that expression – oh, it did something to his heart and his stomach.

Jealousy, Crowley assumed. He wished _anything_ gave him half as much pleasure as a chunk of dead bird gave Aziraphale.

He dragged his eyes away to stare at his cup of wine, finding it empty again. “Alexandria was nice. Antioch. Ephesus. Carthage, I liked. Remember Carthage? Not the same anymore.” He started on his sixth cup, and found that his sour mood had reached the philosophical stage. “I mean, the point is, Rome is like that one story, with the king with the donkey ears. You know the one. Everything it touches turns to…more Rome. ’S boring is what it is.”

“There’s a festival coming up,” the angel commented.

“Oh, uh, yeah, that’s another thing,” Crowley cut across. “Festivals. Every _bloody_ day is a festival. What possible reason can they have to celebrate _so much?_ ’S all, whoops, today is Apollo’s birthday –”

“Saturn.”

“– Oh, right, _of course,_ Saturn’s birthday, so let’s all kill a cow –”

“Pig, I believe.”

“– pig, and then chant about it in the Forum for a few hours and…’S there a _feast_ after? I can’t stand one more _bloody_ feast at that palace.”

“Yes, I believe tradition calls for a feast, drinking, gambling, music…”

“Oh, no.”

“Five days of celebration in fact. Special order of your emperor.”

“Five…five _days?”_ Crowley collapsed, burying his face in the couch, wrapping his arms around his head. “Angel, what’s this city _doing_ to me? Five _days_ of celebration, and I want nothing to do with it.”

“Now, it probably won’t be _that_ bad…”

“Not that bad? D’you know what _goes on_ at those feasts? I’d rather be discorporated.”

“Stop being so dramatic.”

“’M _not_ bein’ dramatic.” He didn’t even have the energy to feel sullen. Every feast, every party, the humans enacted the _worst_ excesses, did… _things_ Hell would certainly never believe, invented whole new sins Heaven could never conceive. And then the emperor would insist that his new red-haired advisor _entertain_ them, and while that was less disgusting, it was still _humiliating._ “’M never getting out of this city. ’M gonna spend eternity obeying that spoiled idiot _child.”_

“Crowley, it won’t be _eternity_ , humans don’t live that long.”

“First two emperors lived more’n seventy-five years. That’s _fifty more years,_ Angel. I can’ take it.”

Aziraphale was silent for so long, Crowley began to think he’d left. The demon was just about to lift his head from the couch and find out, when he finally spoke.

“I’ve asked to be excused from the festivities to concentrate on my studies. The family loaned me a villa, on Albanus Mons. It’s a summer retreat, so it should be quiet this time of year. You may join me, if you like.” Crowley slowly raised his eyes, but the Angel was entirely focused on his meal.

“Who…” he tried to sound casual. “Who else’ll be there?”

“No one.” The angel took another bite, still not looking away from the table. “I requested there not even be any servants or slaves. If you choose not to come, I will simply be alone for five days.”

Five days, alone, with Azirahale?

Crowley’s mind jumped to a dozen different possibilities – several of which should never have been considered _he’s an angel, after all_ – before settling on the most likely: five days of Aziraphale reading his scrolls and miracling up questionable food, while Crowley got as drunk as he pleased in another room.

It sounded delightful.

“I’ll think about it.” Aziraphale nodded as if it made no difference. “Where would I meet you?”

And so, on the 17th evening of December, Crowley found himself standing outside an elaborate villa, outer walls painted a warm yellow-orange, red tile roof suggesting a second floor at the back where the windows could take in the wide, rolling hills tumbling all the way back down to the city.

It would have been a promising start to his break from the utter insanity of the city, but there stood Aziraphale, wearing casual dinner robes of light blue and gold – far more color than he normally wore – and a silly cap, clearly dressed for _revelries_ of some description. Some sort of _plant_ hung from the lintel above the entryway.

“You said we wouldn’t be celebrating anything,” Crowley accused.

“I said no such thing.”

“You _implied._ And you said you wanted to be _excused from the festivities,_ don’t think I forgot that.”

“Fine. I lied. Because if I told you I wanted you to celebrate with me, you wouldn’t have come.”

“Well, thank you for your honesty, _Angel._ Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d rather be in the city after all.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

“Crowley, _wait.”_ He didn’t wait. “Are you honestly going to tell me you’d rather celebrate with _Emperor Caligula_ than with me?”

“Yes, I would. Because at least I know what to expect with him. You’re so devious sometimes…I just _can’t,_ Aziraphale.”

“Do you – will you _slow down?”_ The angel finally stepped in front of him, puffing slightly from the exertion. “Do you even know what this holiday is about?”

“Same as all Roman holidays. Appeasing the random forces of the universe with sacrifice, eating until you vomit, and humiliating your captured enemies.”

“No, Crowley.” He grabbed the demon’s wrist, fingers gripping like steel wrapped in the softest Egyptian cotton. Crowley couldn’t have resisted if he’d wanted to. “This is a day of _role reversals,”_ and now it was the angel who ranted, voice heavy with annoyance as he dragged Crowley back to the villa. “This is the day that slaves are served by their masters. This is the day that all divisions break down and everyone in the empire is treated as an _equal.”_ He jabbed a finger at the plant hanging above the door. Mistletoe. “Do you know what that is?”

“’S a parasite,” Crowley mumbled, but he didn’t feel the bitterness.

“That is a symbol of healing. Of peace. Under a bundle of mistletoe, Romans make alliances with their enemies. And for one night…” his voice softened, just a bit. “For five nights, thanks to your emperor, it means that in this villa there are no… no divides.” He turned to look Crowley straight in the eyes. His face was so open, warm, a little scared. “No walls. No sides.” With his free hand, he reached up and, when Crowley made no move to stop him, carefully slid off the dark glasses the demon wore. What he saw in those golden eyes made him smile. “No angels or Fallen. And I would like to celebrate…with you.”

Crowley swallowed, not trusting himself to speak. Aziraphale’s fingers finally released his wrist, and he caught them again, twining them with his, pressing their palms together.

The angel led him to stand under the mistletoe, right at the dividing line between what had always been and a new possibility he had only just begun to consider.

Aziraphale brushed his lips against Crowley’s cheek, quick, soft, trembling. “Io, Saturnalia.”

“Io, Saturnalia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The original [can be found on my Tumblr.](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189434124532/the-true-meaning-of-saturnalia)
> 
> History notes:  
> \- Caligula: long considered one of the most corrupt Roman emperors, Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus became emperor at the age of 25 and reigned less than four years. Countless stories of his tyranny and probable insanity survive to today, though scholars are beginning to understand that some were exaggerated by his detractors (fairly common among Roman historians). Gaius was the only biological descendant of Augustus to rule, and the last of Julius Caesar's adopted line.  
> \- Baby Boots: Gaius's hated nickname, Caligula, roughly translates to "little army boots," referring to his visits to army camps with his father as a child. It is not likely anyone ever called him this to his face, or risked using it in public. Crowley just has no shame.  
> \- Desecrate the Temple in Jerusalem: It was not uncommon for Roman emperors to erect statues of themselves in pagan temples in the Eastern lands. Synagogues and the Temple in Jerusalem were usually exempt from this, but Caligula apparently decided he knew better than his predecessors. Advisors tried for a year to convince him not to attempt to convert the Temple of Jerusalem into a temple to himself; he died before the orders were carried out.  
> \- Saturnalia: Roman festival in honor of Saturn, beginning on 17 December; festivities included sacrifices, banquets, carnival atmosphere, gambling, masters serving dinner to their slaves, and a selected "King of Saturnalia" who would preside over the merrymaking (much like the Medieval Christmas tradition of a "Lord of Misrule"). Gifts of toys and gag gifts were likely common. The length of the festival varied, with emperors usually declaring it to be three to five days.


	2. Deadly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has always hated snow. Throughout history, Crowley tries to help him deal with his fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02 - Snow

The first time Aziraphale saw snow, it was one hundred and thirty-four years after the humans left Eden. He had been sent to guard a small group of explorers traveling to the far north.

Heaven had warned him about the cold, but he hadn’t really understood the way it would sink below the flesh, settle into the bones. How could he? Angels didn’t feel such things.

Two of the mortals froze to death; another lost an arm to that creeping black death of tissue.

The second time Aziraphale saw snow, it was one thousand, three hundred and eighteen years after the humans left Eden, and shortly after the reign of Gilgamesh of Uruk. Trade with the tribes of the northern steppes was well-established. He simply had to ensure three merchants and their cargo didn’t fall afoul of any bandits.

There weren’t any bandits. There was, however, an avalanche. Aziraphale would not have believed the way so much snow could move so fast.

On and on, every time he traveled north.

\--

Three thousand, seven hundred and six years after the humans left Eden, he sat with Crawley in the newly constructed city of Antioch, sharing a bowl of figs and fava beans. The demon looked at him incredulously.

“How can you _hate snow?_ You’re an angel, I thought you were supposed to love, well, _everything."_

“I love all of the Almighty’s creatures and plants, and I acknowledge the beauty in every aspect of Her Creation,” Aziraphale said, with enough fervent piousness that Crawley would hopefully forget what he had said about hornets just three days before. “Snow, however, is surely an invention of _your side.”_

“Nope,” Crawley said, popping the _p_ and giving an infuriating grin. “I am more than happy to take credit for whatever your lot want to blame on me, but I know for a _fact_ snow was your side, not ours.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“Sure I can.” Crawley tossed another piece of fig in his mouth and began counting on his fingers. “First, no one on my side has that kind of power. We didn’t do volcanoes. We didn’t do monsoons. We certainly didn’t do snow. Second, I went north right after Eden. Snow was already there. None of _us_ had a chance to put it in. Third… nah, never mind.”

“What? You can’t just leave it at that.”

Crawley scratched at his hair, red curls spilling from the central part, and slumped further in his seat. Finally, he grumbled, “Well, it’s Her _style,_ isn’t it? Little ice crystals, each a unique shape with infinite variety, too small, too…ephemeral for any human to appreciate. The mounds sort of softening the edges of the world, the quiet that falls over everything. The way sunlight glints off icicles. It’s, you know. _Pretty.”_

“Crawley,” Aziraphale felt a teasing smile grow across his face. “That was very nearly poetic!”

“Shut up.” Crawley folded his arms and glared at an unfortunate human that happened to be standing nearby. “But my lot certainly wouldn’t create something _pretty._ Enticing and deadly, maybe, but not pretty. Don’t have the imagination for it.”

“Well. It’s certainly deadly enough.”

“So’s the Nile flood. So’s fire. So are lions and crocodiles. And hornets,” he added in a tone that clearly said he had forgotten _nothing_ of their previous conversation.

Aziraphale worked on a handful of fava beans for a few minutes before conceding, “Fine, perhaps snow _is_ one of the Almighty’s gifts to the world, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Actually, according to what you _just said,_ you do.” And that smug grin, as Crawley scored another point.

\--

Three thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight years after Eden, Aziraphale huddled in a longhouse, walls woven from thin wood and covered with mud. A fire blazed in the center and the people crowded as close as they could.

Outside the blizzard continued, snow drifting against the walls, burying the building and the people alive, inch by terrifying inch. Glance out the entryway, and you could see nothing, not even the nearest hut – just unrelenting white, falling, blowing, filling the air.

The angel sat on a bench just beyond the reach of the fire. He shivered, but he wouldn’t dream of taking the spot of a mortal who truly needed that heat. But he could see from their faces, the blaze that filled the room wasn’t enough, could never _be_ enough. They would still freeze.

He would have to do something.

Closing his eyes, Aziraphale created a bubble of heat, centered around himself, warm as a summer day. Then, little by little, he pushed it outwards, filling the longhouse.

It was exhausting work, but when he opened his eye to check, the crowd at the fire was more relaxed. Children were no longer shivering. Women opened their shawls and laughed, stepping a bit back from the heat.

They would be fine. He just had to maintain it.

Hour after hour, Aziraphale concentrated, blessing the longhouse and all the people inside, balancing the air at the perfect temperature through the strength of his heart. Ignoring the growing sounds of chatter, the footsteps of boys and girls playing. The cold that was beginning to grow in his own bones, from the inside out.

Suddenly, the entryway was open – no warning, just a cold breeze ripping through the cozy atmosphere, villagers retreating to the fire.

Aziraphale couldn’t make out what the laughing voice said as the newcomer closed up the entryway, separating the heat of the interior from the storm outside again. Couldn’t really focus on anything but maintaining the miracle.

Then a hand fell on his shoulder.

“Angel! Fancy seeing you here!” Then a much lower voice, practically a hiss. _“What the Heaven are you trying to pull?”_

“They need to be warm,” Aziraphale said, though he wondered why his voice sounded like that. Soft, low, all fuzzy around the edges. His lips didn’t seem to be moving at all.

“Yes, I know. That's why they have the fire.”

“Not enough.” Aziraphale’s eyes wandered up to find Crawley’s, scowling at him beneath a shock of spiked-up hair. “Still cold. Still far too cold. They'll die.” He pushed the miracle a little stronger.

“Stop it, Azir – _stop it!”_ Both hands now, grabbing his shoulders, shaking him. “This bloody house was _built_ to survive the cold. They’ve been living through winters worse than this for _centuries._ Yes, it’s a little uncomfortable, but they won’t die. _You might.”_

“No. ’M an angel.”

“An angel who has dedicated every ounce of his Grace to keeping this building as hot as a Roman bath. You’ll burn yourself out.” Aziraphale tried to focus on Crawley's eyes, but they kept falling out of focus. The scowl looked different from usual. Not angry. “What makes these people so important, anyway? Why is this worth destroying yourself over?”

“’S my job,” the angel explained. “Guardian.”

“They can take care of themselves! They don’t _need_ you!”

“’S my job,” he repeated.

Crawley let out a long breath. Then he settled onto the bench next to Aziraphale. “Fine. I’ll take over. I hold the miracle, you get some rest. Don’t go far, though. We’re going to switch again when I’m tired, you got that?”

Aziraphale nodded, stretching himself out along the bench, soaking in the warmth.

\--

Four thousand, two hundred and fifty-four years after Eden, the Thames River froze.

It had been a difficult year. The emperor in Rome had declared that all people in the empire must make public sacrifices to the Roman gods. The still-forming communities of churches had been devastated – some followers had publicly refused the sacrifice, and then been killed or imprisoned; some had chosen to make the sacrifices and were shunned by the other faithful.

Already it seemed the people would never be reconciled, the fragile alliances of believers shattered forever.

And then one dawn, Aziraphale looked out the window to find the streets of Londinium filled with deadly white, ever more falling from the sky.

In a panic, he dressed in his warmest furs of white and pale grey and pushed out into the almost waist-high snow. Three hundred souls he had been instructed to care for, shepherd in their new beliefs, mostly from the poorest sections of the city. Tenement buildings; no kitchens, some of them barely had a hearth worth speaking of. Foolish hubris of the Romans, trying to build a tropical city on this frozen island.

Aziraphale had crossed the Walbrook and was approaching the tight cluster of insulae behind the Forum when he saw someone approaching – tall, swaggering, dressed in layers of impossibly black fur. Even with his head covered, there was no question.

“Craw- _Crowley,”_ Aziraphale greeted as evenly as he could. “I thought you were up north at the Wall.”

“Well, there wasn’t much going on there, thought I’d take a wander.” He pulled down a few layers of wrapping to flash a grin. “Glad to see you finally enjoying the snow.”

“I’m not – how can you even say that? These are _dangerous_ conditions. People could – people probably _will_ die, Crowley.”

“And are you worried about all of them, or just the few hundred your side have earmarked?”

“How do you know, I mean,” Aziraphale clenched his teeth, not sure what Crowley knew, not sure what was safe to reveal. “I am worried about all thirty thousand inhabitants, _of course.”_ It wasn’t a lie, either. He would have to visit the ones he’d been instructed to look over first, but he _would_ make sure everyone was safe. He could miracle each home warmer, produce thousands of loaves of fresh bread…

Couldn’t he?

He trembled to think how it would sap his strength, how the cold would creep into his bones. And even more to think of how long it would take for one angel to visit every home. How cold the people would be, waiting for him…

“Angel,” Crowley stepped closer, not grinning now. “It’s too many people. You can’t do it.”

He dropped his eyes to glare at the mounding snow, slowly burying him, trapping him in place. “I can try.”

“And if they’re meant to die? If this is the… _Ineffable Plan?”_

Aziraphale bit his lip, a thousand arguments coming back to him. This was an awful time for Crowley to try and score a point against him.

“I don’t know,” he started slowly. “But…there must be _something_ I can do.”

“No, there isn’t.” But before the weight of the words could crush him, Crowley’s hand rested on his shoulder, pressure hardly noticeable through the layers of furs.

Aziraphale lifted his eyes and saw where the demon was pointing.

A group of men and women – priests, deaconesses, elders of the church – were pushing their way down the street through the thick snow, pulling a sled behind them. They stopped to knock at a door. The next moment, a woman opened it. Aziraphale recognized her; her husband had performed the sacrifices for the emperor, and the whole family had been exiled from the church.

Now a deaconess rushed forward to embrace the woman, talking with her gently. A few moments later, loaves of bread had been produced, and piles of furs for the children, who were settled into the sled. The woman and her husband emerged, pointing at the home next to theirs.

The church elders knocked, and another couple answered – these were pagans, worshipers of Mithras. It didn’t matter; they were fed, their children placed in the sled, and soon the whole group was walking together towards the baths, where clouds of steam showed the furnaces and hypocaust were already running.

Now that he knew what to look for, Aziraphale could see more groups out in the streets – some from the church, some not, all checking on their neighbors, feeding those without food, bringing those without heat to a place of safety. Caring for each other.

There wasn’t anything he could do. The humans were already doing it.

“You know,” Crowley said, “you once told me that the poorest people have the most opportunities to choose good. I still think that’s bullshit, but today, at least, I’ll concede the point.”

“And…you aren’t here to interfere?”

“Nah. I already did enough Tempting for today.” He waved his arm. “First, I convinced _quite_ a few city guards to huddle down someplace warm and spend the day drinking and gambling. So they won’t be out harassing your people. Then, I saw to it that a rather large number of libelli wound up in the home of some of your elders. Now, that’s a _real_ moral quandary. Do they hand out forged documents saying their people performed sacrifices for the emperor? Or do they let them martyr themselves to prove their piety? Real crisis of faith stuff right there. Can’t wait to see how it turns out.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I suppose…it’s good that they have the choice.”

He turned back to Crowley, seeing how the tiny flakes of snow – individually so harmless – settled on the furs, on his hair, his eyelashes. It was beautiful, in a way.

Deadly. Pretty. Ineffable.

“Now _that’s_ settled…can I tempt you to a drink?” Crowley gestured to the wineskin at his belt. “Spiced cider. Snow is nice and all, but I much prefer to watch it from inside, with a hot drink and a fire.”

“I…think I’d like that.”

It would be another one thousand, seven hundred and sixty-nine years until Aziraphale could truly enjoy watching the snow fall.

There wouldn’t be a fire – no open flames in the book shop – but there would be mugs of cocoa, a warm tartan blanket, and his demon sitting beside him on the sofa as they watched tiny white flakes drift down from the sky to cover a world that hadn’t been destroyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Yes, the "poor people have more opportunities to choose good" conversation from the book clearly took place much earlier in this version.
> 
> You can read the original version [on my Tumblr!](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189906908797/deadly)
> 
> History notes:  
> \- Antioch: located in modern-day Turkey (but right on the border with Syria), founded by Seleucus I Nicator, general under Alexander the Great and one of his successors; later the capital of the Seleucid Empire, rivaling Egyptian Alexandria for the title of Chief city of the Near East, and an important center for both Judaism and Christianity in the first century CE.  
> \- Longhouse: What I've described is a Germanic longhouse, as found in the southern parts of the North Sea, although it is not dissimilar to an Iroquois longhouse from the American northeast. Neither is strictly speaking "correct" for the year given, but the Germanic longhouse is only off by a century or two.  
> \- Public Sacrifices: In 250 CE, the emperor Decius declared all inhabitants of the Roman empire must perform certain sacrifices, and in return obtain a libellus (certificate) proving they had done so. Amidst the Crisis of the Third Century, this was primarily intended to reassure the people of the strength of the Emperor, though the punishment for not complying was death. Christian communities were force to make a decision, comply or be killed; though they were not specifically targeted, they were also not granted an exception (Jewish communities were).  
> \- Thames River froze: The Thames River (London) is known to have periodically frozen during especially cold winters. The earliest recorded instance of this was 250 CE, when it froze for six weeks.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Thirty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December, 2008: Shortly after the birth of the Antichrist, Crowley discovers an undelivered gift...and another...and another...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 03 - Nutcracker

Crowley hadn’t meant to pry.

The envelope had _his name on it,_ for Satan’s sake. What was he supposed to think?

He had come over to Aziraphale’s shop for a planning session. The baby Antichrist was now almost 4 months old; they needed to come up with cover identities, outlines of lessons, scripts, _strategies_ even. They would only have one shot, they had to get this right.

So he’d come to the shop, been disappointed to find Aziraphale was out (probably stocking up on snacks from that bakery down the street, the other bakery down the corner, and the sweet shop on the other side of Soho), and seen an envelope on the floor by the desk marked _Crowley,_ thought nothing of picking it up. He’d honestly expected an overly verbose note explaining where the angel had gone.

It wasn’t a note.

It was tickets.

Two tickets to see _The Nutcracker_ at the Royal Albert Hall.

That had been shocking enough; then he saw the date.

December of _2003._

After that, Crowley absolutely meant to pry.

By the time Aziraphale returned, he had found every hidden envelope and lain out their contents neatly across the table at the back of the shop.

Albert Hall.

London Coliseum.

Royal Opera House.

Palais Garnier.

Danube Palace.

Hermitage Theater.

Mariinksy Theater.

Two tickets to _The Nutcracker._

Every year from 1968 to 2007.

 _Thirty-nine_ pairs of tickets.

He didn’t know what to say. What _do_ you say to something like that? So, Crowley arranged the tickets, sat behind the table, and waited, dark glasses covering his eyes.

Aziraphale stared at the display for a very long time before mustering up the strength to say, “Ah.”

“Is it really that good?” Crowley didn’t mean to start so belligerently, but he was on edge.

“Well, I – I did _quite_ enjoy it.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t know because someone’s been _hoarding all the tickets.”_

“I didn’t…it wasn’t…” Aziraphale began to back away.

“Oh, no.” Crowley leapt to his feet, circling around behind the angel. “You don’t get out of this one. I’m sick of avoiding the issue. We’re going to talk.” He picked up two tickets for a performance at the Vienna Staatsoper. “Why, Aziraphale?”

“Well. After. After…” He waved his hand, somehow managing to indicate without a word the hundred-and-five-year argument and the quiet resolution in the Bentley that they never _ever_ spoke of. “After… _that._ You said you’d never seen the works of Tchaikovsky, because you’d been… sleeping. You’d heard the music, but you’d never gone. So, I thought…I thought…”

The angel looked wildly in every direction, still trying to edge away, body stiff with tension.

Crowley circled around again, blocking his escape. Something rose inside him, hope and fear and desperation and frustration and he wouldn’t let this go until he _knew._ “You thought I’d like to go.”

Aziraphale nodded, eyes locked on his feet.

“You were right. I would have liked to go.” Crowley swallowed, trying to keep his voice calm. “I _missed_ going to concerts and ballets with you. But you were always the one to invite me, and you said…you _said…”_

“Crowley…”

“No, Angel. I want to know why you kept all these. I want to know why you never brought it up. I want to know what stopped you _thirty-nine times.”_

“Crowley, please!” And Aziraphale met his eyes with _that look._

That broken, desperate, shattered look.

The one that always told Crowley when he’d pushed too far.

His heart slammed into his ribs, his throat closed up, and with a shake of his head, he started to walk away.

“Forty times.”

Crowley turned back. Aziraphale had stepped away from the table, was pulling a book off one of the shelves. Even from the other side of the shop, Crowley could see him trembling.

“There were forty…you missed one.”

From the pages of the book, Aziraphale pulled not an envelope, but a single piece of paper, tattered, folded, the creases worn almost to the point of tearing. Crowley didn’t even feel himself move as he walked back, accepting it with numb fingers.

“I only wrote the letter once. No, no, I wrote it a hundred times, destroyed all the others. But I just…” Aziraphale closed the book and waited.

The paper had gone soft with age, yellow, brittle at the edges. Crowley struggled not to tear it as his shaking fingers unfolded it. The ink on the tickets had faded, so that Crowley couldn’t even make out the name of the venue. But the words of the letter, written in that neat, elaborate style Aziraphale preferred, were still perfectly clear.

_My dear fellow,_

_I cannot be what you want me to be._

_I’m not brave enough. I’m not strong enough. I don’t know how to be anything but what I am._

_But I have missed you. So very, very much._

_You mean more to me than I ever thought would be possible. More than I could ever express._

_And I can’t stand to lose you again._

_I know I could never keep up with you, live the kind of life you live. But, I hope, sometimes, you will slow down enough to meet me where I am._

_I will take whatever time together I can get. Every moment of you in my life is precious._

_And perhaps…someday…I can learn to go faster, too._

_Aziraphale_

_December 3, 1967_

Crowley read every word.

And then he read them again. And a third time.

He was starting on his fourth when the silence became too much for Aziraphale. “I wanted to give it to you, truly, but I – every time, I couldn’t…”

“There weren’t any tickets for this year.” It was the only thought Crowley was ready to put into words.

“Well…no, I didn’t think, what with…There’s only a few years left. There didn’t seem any point, I suppose.”

“No point in going to a ballet?”

“No point in trying to…change who I am.”

The letter and tickets tumbled to the ground as Crowley stepped forward, arms reaching towards Aziraphale – who flinched away, eyes darting up, as if expecting to see Gabriel and the Archangels hovering above the bookshelves.

“Angel, listen to me.” Crowley softened his voice, speaking as carefully as he could. No, it still wasn’t enough. He pulled off his glasses, tossed them on the table, so when he met Aziraphale’s eyes, nothing was hidden. So Aziraphale could see the fear and pain and longing equal to his own. “You don’t need to be anything other than what you already are. When I’m with you I’m more…at peace, more myself, than any other time. I have never wanted you to change.”

“You…” Aziraphale’s voice was miserable. “You always _ask questions._ You want me to…to doubt Heaven, to rebel with you, and I can’t…”

“No.” Crowley felt sick at the accusation. He took another step closer. “No, all I ever wanted was for you to see yourself the way I do. You’re smart enough to know what’s really right, you’re good enough to do it even when you’re told it’s wrong, and you’re enough of a clever bastard to cover your tracks and keep going.” Aziraphale laughed at that, a single breathy chuckle choked with unshed tears.

“You deserve an angel that’s willing to go against Heaven for you.” Jaw clenched. Teetering on the edge.

“I don’t _want_ any other angel.”

And Aziraphale fell, into his shoulder, into his arms, into his heart where he had always belonged.

And Crowley pulled him close, cradled his head, caught him, welcomed him, brought him home.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale sobbed. “I should have given you that letter _years_ ago.”

“Shut up,” Crowley growled. “I have it now. That’s all that matters.”

“But we only have eleven years…”

“Plenty of time.” He pulled Aziraphale closer, buried his own face in the curve of the angel’s neck, felt hot hands pressed into his back.

“Where…” Aziraphale’s voice trembled. “Where do we even _begin?”_

“Well,” Crowley said from where he was cocooned in the angel’s arms, surrounded by his warmth, his smell, the beat of his heart. “Call me crazy but…how about we go see a ballet?”

This time, Aziraphale’s laugh was long, deep and genuine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> No major edits or history notes this time, but you can [see the original version on my Tumblr!](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189456418002/thirty-nine)
> 
> More will be posted soon. :)


	4. Dennis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cape Cod, 1982. Crowley is on assignment in America, and fairly certain he's been sent to the wrong place. So why does he keep getting praise from Hell anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 04 - Cranberry

Crowley sat on the four-poster bed, staring at the phone. The clock beside it clicked from 1:59 PM to 2:00. He tensed…but nothing happened.

 _Don’t panic. It’s not always exactly the same time._ He tried to occupy himself by listing things he disliked about the hotel room.

The lighting in the room was atrocious, casting everything in a sickly yellow color. Even sitting alone, he wore his glasses to dull the glow a little. The bed was…passably comfortable, the quilt too stiff, the pillows far too flat. The carpet was worn, though only a little. The color scheme was too…green. He’d seen three ants, which might just be a coincidence, or the start of an infestation.

The phone rang, a sharp jangle cutting right across his nerves. 2:03 PM.

He scooped up the handset and said as casually as possible, “Yeah?”

And relaxed, smile drifting across his face that he’d never allow in a face-to-face conversation.

“No, I’m not too busy, Angel. How was your week?”

Slowly, he leaned back on the bed, stretching the coiled cord as far as it would go.

“Really? No. The _audacity,_ coming in and trying to buy a book. What do they think it is, some kind of _shop?”_ He listened another moment. “Aziraphale, I am taking this exactly as seriously as it deserves.”

He listened for a while longer, with an occasional, “Yeah. Yeah.”

“How are my plants?” He frowned. “Perfectly fine? They’re dropping leaves all over the shop, aren’t they?” Rolled his eyes and sat up. “No, I don’t care if it’s November, they _know_ what’s expected of them. I’ve only been gone…” he sighed. “Twenty months.” He was really going to have to re-establish dominance when he got back.

“Nah, I mean, New York was _great._ Plenty going on there. We should – you should – yeah, I think you’d like it there.” He winced. He sounded pathetic. “Then two days ago, hey, congratulations, now on to the next location. But…I really think someone cocked this one up. _No way_ this is where I’m supposed to be.”

“Dennis.”

He jumped to his feet. “No, not _Dennis who,_ Dennis. It’s a town.” Pacing was difficult in a room this small. He almost immediately became tangled in the phone cord. “I have _no idea_ who names a town ‘Dennis.’” He struggled to free himself without moving the earpiece. “Some bloody tourist place, beaches and sea food, only it’s the _off-season.”_

He kicked the last bit of cord off his leg – _how had that even gotten there?_ – and flung himself dramatically into the armchair. It wasn’t as good without an audience.

“Now I’m stuck here, nothing to do, until Hell admits they made a mistake. Who knows how long _that’s_ going to be.”

Furious scowl. “No, I’m not being… who even uses the word _histrionic?_ There’s really nothing here. Even the hotel – you’ll never guess. _Three stars.”_ He frowned. “You try it.”

“There is a cranberry bog.” He admitted sullenly. “Lots of spiders. I’m sure there’s _something_ I can do with that.” Pause. “No, I will not _behave myself,_ I’m a demon. And I was told to make trouble, not that there’s any trouble to get into here.”

He sighed. “Haven’t the first idea, they just congratulated me for something to do with _politics_ or _the economy.”_ Crowley pulled off his glasses rubbing at his eyes. “Come on, Aziraphale, you _know_ that’s not how I work. I don’t even _understand_ the economy. Supply-side whatsname, what’s that even mean? But Hell was really happy.” He shuddered. “Ah, I hope I don’t get a commendation. Then I’ll _know_ it’s bad. It’ll be like the Spanish Inquisition all over again. Or the French Revolution.”

He smiled, twisting the cord around his finger. “No, I – you don’t have to. If you want crepes, I’m sure there’s someplace closer.” He laughed. “Yeah, now you mention it, they _do_ still have the death penalty here, but I think you need something more than a bad outfit.”

He was running out of things to say. He tried desperately to think of something, anything. “Uh, any dinner plans?” Nodded. “No, that’s – that sounds good. I wish – I hope you enjoy it.” He knocked his head against the back of his chair. “Got some wine at the airport. ’S alright, I guess.” Nodded again. “Yeah. No, definitely. Talk to you next week.”

Crowley walked back to the bed and dropped the phone into the cradle with another sigh.

–

It was 2:07 PM and Crowley had the phone to his ear before the first ring even finished. “Yeah?”

“Not good, Angel. I spent _days_ getting those wolf spiders to listen to me, and before I could enact my plan, they closed the bog for the season!”

He covered the mouth of the phone and scowled at the half-dozen spiders on his curtain. “Oi, you lot. Back in the planter or you can winter outside with the rest.” He glared until they had settled back among the spiny shrubs with small red blossoms. He would _not_ be telling Aziraphale about his new roommates, or that the best option at the undersized plant shop had been a succulent called _crown of thorns._

“No, it was going to be a _great_ plan. All my plans are great.” He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Well, that _worked,_ didn’t it?”

He groaned and flung himself back onto the green quilt. “Of course I’m still in _Dennis,_ where else would I be? I told them it was probably supposed to be _Denver,_ but does anyone listen to me?” He pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “The worst is, they keep congratulating me on all the good work I’m doing.”

“No, Aziraphale, I don’t think they meant the spiders, either.” He picked up a newspaper – an actual, local paper, not one of the ones put out by Hell. “I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on, but they don’t exactly get the New York Times here.” He flipped through the titles – _Cape Cod Chronicle, Provincetown Advocate, The Register._ He’d tried to get a few older issues, but everything was from the current month: November, 1982.

“Why would I go to a library?” Pause. “Ohhhhh. Mm, I suppose I can try that if I get desperate.”

Aziraphale asked a question. “Nh, ah, ok. So. Someone wrote this book about this huge secret satanic organization that, I don’t know, controls the world or something. Accused my side of…some stuff.”

He sighed. “If you must know. Torturing and murdering children.” Crowley sat bolt upright. “No, Aziraphale, _obviously not._ You’d _know_ if it was true.” He picked at the seams of his black jeans. “I suppose you had to ask.”

“Well that’s the thing. We didn’t know anything about it either. So they sent me here to figure out what was going on.”

He flipped through the pages of the newspapers. “Not much, really. All in their heads, right? Didn’t even need to bother stirring it up, these things really take care of themselves. I’ve just been doing my usual, traveling to different cities, causing a little trouble.”

Giving up on the tiny newsprint, Crowley reached for one of the bottles of cranberry wine that the liquor store had had in abundance. “Well, that’s the thing. I can’t find anything in the papers, so that can’t be it.” He poured himself a glass. “Just…you know. Economic stuff. Banks. Taxes. I don’t know.”

He took a drink. “Mh. There was something, can’t find it now. Some men getting sick out in California. Hope it’s not another plague.” He laughed a little. “Hooray penicillin. Honestly, I’m glad to see the end of plagues. Lousy way to do things.”

Aziraphale turned the conversation to lighter things, and for a while Crowley sipped his wine and listened, learning everything going on back in London, what the customers had tried to buy now, and the angel’s dinner plans.

“Oh, you’ll like this. You know what next week is? Thanksgiving.” He poured the last of the bottle into his glass. “It’s like Christmas, only instead of presents, more food. Very American. The hotel’s serving it in the main dining room.” He drained his glass. “Eh, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce. The usual. I probably won’t have any, you know, you’re supposed to celebrate with friends, but – yeah I thought you’d like that.” He smiled at the phone. “I’ll…uh, I’ll talk to you then, right?”

After he hung up, he noticed one of the spiders sitting on the floor next to him. “I thought I told you to stay in the planter.” At least they’d cleared up the ant infestation. He’d have to get some crickets in the morning.

The wolf spider waved hairy legs at him. “Oh, alright.” He let her scramble up his arm and settle on his shoulder. “But no wine for you. That’s all I need, bunch of drunk spiders.”

–

The phone rang at 2:01 PM. Crowley didn’t pick up.

Or at 2:10. Or 2:13.

It was 2:29 PM – long after Aziraphale had lost track of the number of times he’d called and hung up – when Crowley finally knocked the handset out of the cradle. “Wha’?” he demanded, slouched on the floor amid empty bottles of cranberry wine.

“’M celebrating, tha’s what.” The spider on his shoulder scurried down to settle on his knee instead. She was always nearby these days. “Cuz I know what Hell c’gratulated me for.”

He dug around for a bottle that was still half-full, drank straight from its mouth. “Not the economy. Well. Starts with that. Whole time I’m here, people been…losing jobs, banks closing. Did I notice?” He leaned his head against the bed. “No, s’pose not. But people…you know _people.”_

He nodded, watching the spider jump from one knee to the other. “Satanic Cult story just…keeps growing. Accusations. People in prison. Kids always in the middle. ’S not even _real._ Just. Panic. And then the other thing.”

He held out his hand, let the spider crawl across his fingers. “Said I was done caring, after the Black Death. You can’t… can’t _care,_ you know? Plague’s gotta run its course.” He hadn’t ever really believed that anyway. “But this is… something new.”

He raised his hand and the spider clambered onto his head. It felt nice, little fuzzy legs combing through his hair. “Dunno. Something with… ’mune system? ’S bad. And…and no one _cares._ Aren’t studying it. Aren’t talking about it. Cuz of who’s sick.”

He picked up the bottle again, draining it, sweet-tart wine running down his throat. “’S what ’m s’posed to’ve done, y’know. Make ’em turn on each other. Cut off th’ ones who need help. ’S like I did in Spain…and France…”

He leaned his head against his knees, curling up beside the bed in his nest of bottles. “Nnhhh, ’f its _nothing_ _to do with me,_ why do I keep getting credit?”

Crowley couldn’t listen any longer. He let the phone tumble out of his fingers, onto the floor. Aziraphale’s voice grew louder, more insistent, then abruptly cut off.

Of course he’d hang up. Why would anyone want to talk to a demon who –

With a strange hum, something burst out of the phone, materializing in the hotel room very close to where Crowley sat. The pale figure stumbled on the wine bottles, then straightened his tartan bow tie and glared.

“Don’t you dare ignore me, Crowley.”

“I…how’d you…”

“Traveling through the telephone lines. You told me you’d tried it once before.”

“It was _awful.”_

“Not nearly as awful as your driving.” Aziraphale looked him up and down. “Look at yourself. You’re dressed like some sort of…teenaged ruffian. Why is there a spider in your hair?”

“’S fashion,” Crowley answered vaguely.

The angel leaned down and lifted the wolf spider, being careful not to hurt her legs. He watched the spider run across his palm. “And how long has he been like this?”

“Look, Angel, she just –”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Aziraphale walked away, whispering to the spider. “Really? And you didn’t try to tell him – No, I suppose not. No, you’ve done your best. I’ll take it from here.” He set the spider down among the crown of thorns.

The angel still looked absolutely furious. “You could at least stand up instead of skulking on the floor like that.”

Crowley stumbled and tottered getting to his feet, and it wasn’t only because of the all the empty bottles. Well, in a way it was.

“Angel, you shouldn’ be here –”

“I should _absolutely_ be here. You’ve been on your own far too long.” He eyed the bottles. “How many of those are from today?”

“Nn. All of ’em. Housekeeping clears them out every morning.”

He tried not to notice the look Aziraphale gave him as the angel snapped his fingers, miracling the bottles into a neat row across the bedside table. “Now sober up.”

“C’mon, Angel, ’m fine.”

“Sober up. I’m not talking to you like this.”

The cranberry wine was a lot less pleasant coming out than it had been going in. And sobriety only made _all_ the emotions he’d been feeling more clear.

Aziraphale watched the liquid pour back into the bottles, and when he was satisfied, jabbed a finger into Crowley’s chest.

“I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense. You are _not responsible_ for what the humans do, or believe, or ignore. That is _their choice.”_

“I know.” He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “I just…how can they be so _cruel_ to each other?”

“Free will.” Aziraphale sat beside him, so close their shoulders just barely brushed. “One day an act of kindness that surprises even me, the next…”

“The next, they leave hundreds of people to die horribly, just because they’re different.” This wasn’t any easier to process sober. “Are you going to tell me this is all part of the Ineffable Plan?”

“Would that make you feel better?”

“Has it ever?”

“Then, no. I think I’ll leave it at that.”

They sat together in silence for a long time.

There really weren’t any words to make it better. Free will or not, Plan or not, sometimes, humans were the absolute _worst._ He didn’t know why, after six thousand years, it still hurt to learn that.

But it helped to know, from the pressure of one shoulder leaning on another, that at least someone else had never learned to stop caring.

“So, are you going to head back to London?”

“After coming all this way?” Aziraphale had run out of severe looks; he just smiled sadly. “I have a few healings left in my allowance for the year. I think I might…see what I can do out in California.”

Crowley nodded, and for once he was the one on the verge of a forbidden _thank you._

“Before you go. I think the Thanksgiving dinner is about to start. I don’t suppose…”

“My dear, I would never turn down a feast.”

The demon quickly stood up, re-settling his glasses, manifesting something a little more sophisticated than the punk-inspired look he’d been wearing.

Aziraphale dug under the bed and found an unopened bottle of cranberry wine. “I’m looking forward to seeing how this tastes. Oh, it looks like a little lighthouse! Lovely.”

Crowley paused at the door. “You’re not going to be all weird and pretend we don’t know each other, are you?”

“I suppose not. Since this is supposed to be a celebration with _friends.”_ He eyed Crowley suspiciously. “Don’t go being _overly familiar_ just because I said that.”

“Me? I would never!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Original version can be found [on my Tumblr.](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189470897482/dennis)
> 
> History/Culture notes:
> 
> \- Dennis, MA is a real place, and chosen for the setting because (a) it is the site of the first recorded commercial cranberry bog in America, and (b) it has a very silly name. It’s actually quite nice, if you manage to visit between the overcrowded tourist season and the completely dead off season, Crowley just has no patience.  
> \- Cranberry wine: not as common as the story might imply, especially in 1982. Crowley is drinking Truro Vineyard’s Cranberry Red from their Lighthouse Wine Series, which my parents are big fans of , even though that wasn’t available until the late 2000s.  
> \- Wolf spiders: Large, hairy spiders that eat flies and other pests. Cranberry bogs are absolutely filled with them and the workers just have to tolerate that. They also remain active through the winter.  
> \- I did a [meta on Tumblr](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/187730735602/crowley-in-the-1980s) a while back discussing what Crowley did during the Satanic Panic of the 1980s. My conclusion, at the time, was that he likely spent a lot of time playing D&D. However, cut off from anything interesting to do, I think he would start looking into what was really going on. I've kept the details vague in-story, because I was unsure what Crowley would actually be able to discover from a library on Cape Cod; however, the highlights of what Hell was congratulating Crowley for are:  
> \- Two economic recessions hit America in the early 1980s, one running January to July in 1980, an a larger one from July 1981 to November 1982. As with all recessions, the causes were complex and the effects far-reaching, especially among the working class. Unemployment was briefly VERY high.  
> \- Reganomics: "Free market" policies enacted by the Reagan administration during the 1980s intended to counteract the economic recessions. We are still feeling the long-term effects over thirty years later, including the widening income gap.  
> \- Satanic Panic: Moral panic starting in 1980s America, centered largely around a belief in widespread Satanic ritual abuse, especially in daycare centers. Starting in 1983, numerous cases went to trial based on flimsy or no evidence (particularly memories "recovered" under hypnosis and interviews with children using techniques that would be considered unethical and coercive today).  
> \- AIDS epidemic: although HIV had been present in the United states since 1969, it was first officially detected in a group of five otherwise healthy men in California in 1981. By the end of 1982, 335 people had been infected, and 136 had died, mainly gay or bisexual men. The disease was often referred to as Gay-Related Immune Deficiency (GRID) although the CDC adopted the term AIDS in September of 1982. Because it was known as a "gay plague," very little attention was paid to the epidemic, especially amidst the backlash against the march towards LGBTQ+ rights started by Stonewall in 1969 (this included ignoring how the virus spread through hemophiliac populations and drug users; and failure to provide support to development of effective treatments). By 1985, over 12,000 Americans had died of HIV/AIDS related causes.
> 
> (Sorry for the down note. It is my assumption that, since Hell doesn't understand people, they REALLY wouldn't understand things like harmful economic policies, or why populations would turn on their most vulnerable members in a crisis. Humans barely even understand these things. And hence Crowley would get the credit/blame.)


	5. Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London, 2019: Ever since the world didn't end, Crowley has been unable to sleep. Can Aziraphale help him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 05 - Fire

The first few days after the world didn’t end, Crowley was almost a new being.

The first few days, he was relaxed, casual, unselfconscious.

The first few days – nearly a week! – Crowley took his glasses off whenever they were alone. He met Aziraphale’s eyes, he laughed, he smiled, and oh, that smile. It was the real one, the one Aziraphale had seen too rarely since Eden. Wide, toothy, a little nervous, genuine.

The first few days after the world didn’t end, Crowley seemed happy.

It was hard to notice, after that, when things changed. After all, if Crowley acted a bit more as he had for six thousand years, well, that didn’t ring any alarm bells. They were still trying to decide what level of openness they were comfortable with. Bound to be some false starts.

At the end of September – over a month after the world didn’t end – Aziraphale realized Crowley was back to wearing his glasses all the time.

By the end of October, he couldn’t remember when he’d last heard Crowley laugh, even the sarcastic chuckle the demon had been fond of.

By mid-November, the smile was gone.

By the start of December, Crowley was as tense as ever, perhaps more so, even as he sprawled across the bookshop sofa as if he’d never even heard of bones.

“Crowley, my dear, are you quite alright?” Aziraphale finally asked, looking up from the book he’d been pretending to read.

“Nh,” Crowley helpfully responded, running his finger along the screen of his phone. “’M fine, really. Just gotta finish this level. Flash games’re one of my best inventions.” He gave a tight-lipped smile that wouldn’t have passed muster even in those August days when they’d been sure everything was about to fall apart.

“Is this one of your _real_ inventions, or one of the ones you took credit for because you knew it would confuse Hell?”

“Don’t actually remember.” His finger zigzagged. “No the green one, the green – arg.” He tossed the phone aside. “That was my last life.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Eh. I’ll have more in about an hour.” He flopped back again, arms and legs finding a new, even more unlikely sprawl. It was almost convincing, except for the way his right foot tapped, hard enough to shake his whole leg. Except for the way his head jerked here and there, searching, searching…for what?

Aziraphale closed his book and placed it on the arm of his chair. “I suppose that means you have some time to talk.”

“Talk? Sure. I’ll talk.” Crowley suddenly sat upright. There didn’t seem to be any intermediate stage; one moment, a heap of limbs and black fabric, the next a narrow demon sitting on the edge of his seat. Aziraphale didn’t miss the way he shook his head, or the way his leg continued to bounce. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Well, I would very much like to talk about whatever has you so on edge. Although I know you’ll tell me to stop worrying.”

“Really, Angel, ’s nothing.”

Aziraphale watched for another moment, then stood up, coming over to sit next to Crowley. “It clearly isn’t ‘nothing,’ because – ” he sighed as Crowley jumped to his feet and stalked across the room.

“Really, I’m fine. I just need, I don’t know, coffee. Tea. Something.”

That sounded like the last thing he needed. “I can get you some chamomile…”

“No! No, I…” Folded his arms. Unfolded them. Paced a little more. “I can’t sleep.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, with as much sympathy as someone who hadn’t slept since before the invention of the horse collar could muster. “Well, I understand chamomile helps.”

“No I mean…I _can’t_ sleep. Don’t want to. Need to stay awake.”

“Alright. I still don’t see the problem.”

“’S like…” Crowley sat down on the sofa again, hands folded in his lap, thumbs bouncing off each other. “If you suddenly decided to stop eating. Have you tried? To go without?”

“Of course. Why, just a little over a decade ago, I went an entire week without eating. I was very proud of my restraint.”

“This wouldn’t be the same week you discovered _Harry Potter_ and didn’t move from your chair until you’d read it all, would it?” The ghost of a real smile hovered on his face.

“It doesn’t matter what my inspiration was!”

“No, but. It was only a week. Try a month. Try _three_ months. It’s…I’ve trained my mind to want sleep. It’s not easy to quit.”

“Why quit, then? Or, perhaps ease yourself off it, instead of all at once?”

Crowley shook his head. The leg was bouncing again. “I. I don’t want to dream anymore. And I can’t figure out how to stop it. So I can’t sleep at all.”

Aziraphale had never dreamed, not that he could remember, though he’d only ever slept a handful of times. However, he’d once read a book on dreaming. Several books, actually, but the ones involving Freudian theory were unlikely to be useful in this situation.

“I believe it helps to relax first. Perhaps the amount of stress you’re feeling is causing you to dream?”

“’M not…what makes you think I’m stressed?”

Aziraphale just raised his eyebrows. Crowley scoffed and looked down at his hands. “Fine. I’m stressed because I don’t want to dream, my stress causes dreams, dreams cause stress – how do I make it all stop?” He was all but pleading.

Instead of answering, Aziraphale placed one of the worn pillows that decorated the sofa onto his lap.

“You.” He sat so still, but Aziraphale was sure his eyes were darting between the pillow, the angel’s face, back and forth. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? I don’t have anywhere else to be. Come now, no reason to be shy.”

Slowly, so slowly, Crowley lay his head on the pillow, face turned away from Aziraphale.

“Are you going to take those glasses off?”

“Nh.”

“I can’t imagine they’re comfortable.”

“Fine. Just. Don’t look.” Those words hurt more than he could say – since when had Crowley hidden his eyes from _Aziraphale?_ But he waited as they were removed, folded, put away.

Crowley didn’t settle easily. His shoulders were still tense where they pressed into Aziraphale’s thigh, and he could see the stiffness in the Crowley’s back.

Not sure what to do – but wanting to do _something_ – Aziraphale brushed his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

The reaction was instantaneous.

“NGK!” Crowley’s hand shot up, knocking Aziraphale’s fingers aside, covering his head as if he had a wound. He started to twist and look back, but apparently remembered he was hiding his eyes and turned stubbornly away again. “What…what are you doing?”

“I…I just thought…” Aziraphale took a deep breath, and carefully placed his hand on the back of the sofa, where it was in no danger of touching Crowley. “Rhythmic tactile sensations are very relaxing. I thought it might help.” When Crowley didn’t move, he added, “I won’t do it again if you don’t want me to.”

The demon’s hand lifted, slowly, slowly, and settled on the couch in front of him. “I guess it’s alright. Just to try.”

Aziraphale lowered his fingers and gently ran them through the bright red fire of Crowley’s hair. It was stiff with whatever gel he used, but the strands fell apart under a bit of pressure. Under the shell of product, it was soft. Warm. He ran his fingers through again, again, mesmerized by the feel of it.

And slowly, the shoulders relaxed, the back softened, the breath slowed. After perhaps twenty minutes, Crowley was asleep.

For the first hour, Aziraphale congratulated himself on so easily finding a solution. He wished he’d remembered to bring his book over, but he enjoyed the chance to study Crowley’s face, now untroubled in sleep, and to explore the thick red hair that was spilling across his lap. He even chuckled a little, thinking how Crowley would react when he woke up, finally rested and relaxed but his hair a disaster.

It was during the second hour that things started going wrong.

The tension came back into Crowley’s shoulders, one twitch at a time. His fingers jerked and spasmed against the sofa cushion, weakly grasping. Crowley said something, mumbled, under his breath, but it sounded pained. Scared. Panicked.

With growing alarm, Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Should he try waking him? He wasn’t certain, but this didn’t seem right. Perhaps the demon had slept long enough. “Crowley? Are you alright?” No reaction, except that the mumbling got more frantic. “Crowley, I rather think – ”

Without warning, Crowley rolled onto his back, kicking, thrashing with his arms. “Aziraphale!” he shouted, louder than the angel would have expected. “Where the Heaven are you? Aziraphale!”

“I’m right here!” He shook Crowley’s shoulders more urgently, but the now the demon seemed to be fighting, arms going in every direction as he shouted again and again, with more urgency.

“Aziraphale! AZIRAPHALE!”

“Crowley! I’m here! CROWLEY!”

Shouting didn’t make any difference. For ten minutes, the demon thrashed and called and sobbed, then just as abruptly fell silent again. Soon after that, he was sound asleep, as if nothing had ever happened.

The angel, meanwhile, was completely shaken. He’d never heard fear like that in Crowley’s voice, not in six thousand years. And he hadn’t been able to do a thing to help. His fumbling fingers found their way back into Crowley’s hair, but it seemed too little a thing now.

The second round came an hour later.

Aziraphale thought he was prepared this time. He made soothing noises as the tension started to form in Crowley’s back, then switched to a gentle mantra of _I’m here, I’m here._

It was no use – the thrashing, the shouting came back, even more intense than before. And something else.

Aziraphale had once heard that demons could project their dreams on the world around them, but Crowley had scoffed the idea, grumbling that he’d never seen anything when he’d woken up. The reason, Aziraphale was about to discover, was that it took a strong dream, and the images lasted only as long as the dream did.

As Crowley thrashed in his lap, sobbing his name, _he’s gone he’s gone he’s gone_ the first flames began to appear around the couch.

Aziraphale slapped at them, alarmed, but it was only light – the illusion of fire, without heat.

But they spread.

Across the floor, up the shelves, until the entire room was filled with dancing red flames, flickering, flaring, and Crowley screamed with such despair _AZIRAPHALE!_

But when, fifteen minutes later, Crowley settled down again – the flames dimmed and vanished, leaving nothing but a memory, and a tremor that Aziraphale couldn’t quash.

An hour later came the worst yet.

There was no warning this time. One moment Crowley was lying peacefully, the next, flames were shooting across the ceiling. A beam crashed down, a window exploded from the heat and pressure.

It seemed impossibly real; Aziraphale could no longer see the peaceful stillness of the shop behind the illusion, just the unrelenting horror of Crowley’s night terror. He was choking on smoke, he could feel the heat of the flames, worried they might actually ignite his books, and still, still Crowley thrashed in his lap, calling, calling and then –

He sat upright, eyes wide, pure gold without a hint of white, full of fear and pain beyond anything the angel had ever witnessed as he screamed –

_“SOMEBODY KILLED MY BEST FRIEND!”_

“Crowley!” He grabbed the demon’s face in both his hands, turning it towards him. “Crowley, dear, I’m right here, I’m right here.”

But those serpent eyes didn’t see anything. “Bastards! All of you!” The thrashing hands grabbed at Aziraphale’s coat, his shirt, his hair. They didn’t hurt – there wasn’t much strength behind them – but they were unrelenting.

“Crowley, please!”

And then a wordless, broken scream that just went on and on as the shop burned around them.

After twenty minutes, Crowley collapsed back across the angel’s legs. Once again, the fire was gone as if it never existed, but Aziraphale couldn’t stop the tears running down his face, the sobs wrenching his own shoulders.

An hour passed.

Then another.

Every time the demon moved, Aziraphale held his breath, terrified for what would come next.

When it started again – faster breathing, tossing and turning – Aziraphale couldn’t do anything but cry, hand pressed to his mouth. He didn’t have any comfort left to offer.

But this time, Crowley’s eyes snapped open with a gasp, hands clutching at the sofa…then he sighed. “Guess that didn’t work after all,” he muttered.

Aziraphale didn’t dare to move. Those eyes - large and serpentine as the day they'd met - wandered over to his face. “Angel? What’s wrong?”

“Crowley?” he asked weakly.

The demon sat up, reached a hand over to brush Aziraphale’s tear-stained face. “What happened?”

“You woke up,” he whispered wonderingly. And before he could even think about it, Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley pulling him close, sobbing into his shoulder. “I thought you weren’t going to – I didn’t know what to do…”

“I can’t have been asleep that long,” Crowley protested. “I just…I had a nightmare,” he confessed, as if it were an embarrassing secret.

Aziraphale just wept harder. “I thought I could help! I’m so – I’m so sorry, Crowley! I didn’t know what to do, I’m sorry!”

“Hey.” Hesitantly, awkwardly, he twined his own arms across Aziraphale’s back. “I woke up, didn’t I? Nothing for you to do.”

“But the other three times!”

“What?” Crowley pushed them apart to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, his own still solidly gold, wide with fear. “What other three times?”

–

They didn’t see each other for four days.

Crowley needed time to absorb what Aziraphale told him, about the illusory fire, the things he had shouted. Things he’d tried to hide, after the Apocalypse. After all, the shop hadn’t _really_ burned, Aziraphale hadn’t _really_ been hurt, so what was there to tell?

Nothing at all, except for the images that still haunted his dreams, and the fact that his eyes wouldn’t change back to their more human shape, the fact that he still smelled fire in the shop some days, still saw flames glittering at the edge of his vision.

Aziraphale needed time to process, too. And he did that best while reading.

He’d once read a book on dreaming. Now he read as many as he could find.

On the fourth evening, he showed up at Crowley’s flat, unannounced, with several boxes of supplies and a plan.

–

The nightlight was a cool green, not too bright, making the bedroom appear to be underwater. The illusion was slightly spoiled by the little stars stuck to the ceiling in complex constellations – just regular glow-in-the-dark stickers, but Aziraphale had miracled them a little brighter.

The record player in the corner played some of Crowley’s favorite Nocturnes, the ones he’d been certain Aziraphale didn’t know about. Soft and soothing music filled the room.

The bed had already been comfortable, but now with fresh pillows and an extra thick mattress cushion, Crowley felt as if he was sinking into it, surrounded. Even though the room was a perfectly comfortable temperature, Aziraphale added a thick duvet with a tartan cover. It was heavy, and it smelled like the angel. It felt…secure, somehow. Safe.

But that wasn’t all.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, dressed in tartan pajamas, hands nervously resting on the edge of the bed. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s really not –”

“I’m certain.” Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale slid into bed beside Crowley, fussing with the duvet, trying to tuck them both in under it. “And I don’t want to hear another word against it.”

“It’s really nothing, Angel, I don’t _need_ to sleep. All this is just –”

“All of this is to remind you that _you are safe._ There’s no fire. No demons. No…whatever other terrors are lurking in your mind. I am here, you are safe, and we will get through this _together.”_

Crowley sighed, turning onto his side to face Aziraphale. “I know I’m not in any danger.”

“Knowing you aren’t in danger isn’t the same thing as feeling safe.”

For the first time in over a month, Crowley felt a real laugh rise inside him. “You read a few books and you think you’re an expert.”

“I’m as good as you’re going to get.” Warm arms, thick, strong, soft, wrapped around Crowley and drew him close, pressed him to the angel’s heart.

“What if the dreams come back again?”

“They almost certainly will. But we’ll find ways to fight them. I already have some ideas.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley muttered, one final protest, one final doubt. One final shame. “I’m the one who’s broken. After everything we went through, you shouldn’t have to _fix_ me.”

“Oh, no. My dear Crowley.” The faintest pressure of lips against the top of his head. “I didn’t fight all of Heaven and Hell to create a world where you are _scared_ all the time. It is my duty – no, my _pleasure_ to help you, my dearest friend.”

Crowley was too choked up to say anything, so instead he twined his arms around Aziraphale, let himself relax against Aziraphale, breathed deeply the scent of Aziraphale until it filled his whole mind.

“Now,” came that precise, supercilious, lovely voice, “we need to make sure you’re thinking of something _completely unrelated_ to the fire.”

“How do you propose we do that?” Crowley asked in his most suggestive voice.

“Shush, you.” Aziraphale shifted, sliding his cheek across Crowley’s, bringing his mouth to Crowley’s ear, and spoke softly, soothingly. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

“Actually, I prefer _Persuasion.”_

“Interrupt me again, and it’ll be _Northanger Abbey.”_

“Ngk.”

But he smiled into the angel’s shoulder as he began again: “Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted to Tumblr.](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189525255112/terrors)
> 
> Sleep terrors (or night terrors) are common in children (around 40%) but much more rare in adults. They can be very intense, with the sleeper screaming, sitting up, walking, moving, etc, usually expressing extreme fear. Episodes tend to last a few minutes, and the dreamer falls back asleep.
> 
> Because terrors happen during non-REM sleep, they occur earlier in the night than nightmares, are extremely difficult to wake from, and often are not remembered at all, or only vaguely. In general, night terrors tend to be worse for sleeping partners than for the dreamer. However, terrors can also be a sign of other underlying psychological conditions, including anxiety and PTSD, and can be made worse by stress, alcohol and disrupted sleep patterns. There is no cure for sleep terrors, but mitigating these conditions generally helps.
> 
> For those unfamiliar, the books discussed at the very end are the works of Jane Austen, which I am convinced Crowley is a fan of. Aziraphale starts reciting the first line of "Pride and Prejudice" (her most famous book), Crowley requests "Persuasion" (her last, and most emotionally mature work), and Aziraphale threatens him with "Northanger Abbey" (her first completed book, not published until after her death, essentially a parody of Gothic novels popular at the time). The final quote is the beginning of the first line of "Persuasion" (which is actually quite long).
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	6. Christmas Without Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Europe, 1800s.
> 
> Aziraphale has been sent to meditate in solitude on his FRIVOLOUS uses of miracles, while Crowley has been assigned to Italy.
> 
> But a demon's gonna do what a demon's gonna do...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of three stories to incorporate multiple prompts.
> 
> 06 - Sleigh Bells  
> 07 - Silent Night

Snow had started to fall.

Just lightly, each white flake twisting down from a sky dark with clouds.

All the usual nighttime noises – insects, animals rustling in the undergrowth, even the wind in the trees – were silenced. Just the gentle hush of snow accumulating, molecule by molecule.

Aziraphale knew he should be inside. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, the cabin bright and warm and empty. Two of the three would be an improvement on what he had out here, standing on the porch, looking across the rolling, tree-dotted hills.

Cold. Empty. Silent.

He hated the silence most of all.

–-

Crowley didn’t hate snow, so long as he didn’t have to travel in it.

Walk, and your boots filled up with snow.

Ski, and you looked ridiculous anywhere outside the Alps. And in them, too.

Riding a horse was out – if he went the rest of eternity without ever sitting on one of those again, he’d be happy.

But anything with wheels was also out – carriages and wagons and carts could barely handle clean city streets.

Trains were good, if the tracks were cleared, but so far Hell had not been interested in his proposal to build a train line that stopped at every human residence in the world. Which was fine, that had only been semi-serious, anyway.

The only remaining option was to use some form of sled.

He glared at the…sled? Sleigh? Whichever. It was small, just enough room for one person, or a small pile of supplies, to sit in it the seat, but whoever drove it had to stand behind on the runners. It was pulled by some kind of long-maned pony or very small horse that looked like it had its own ideas about who was in charge.

The bridle and reins were covered in bells.

“Do you have one without the bells?” he asked, not even really hoping.

“Nope,” the man said with the cheerful joy of one who knows he has the transportation market cornered for the next few months. “Those bells let people know you’re coming even when they can’t see you. And anyway, they keep off the evil spirits.”

“So I’ve heard.” Crowley reached over and flicked a finger at one of the large silvery bells.

_Chk-chk-chk_

The whole line jingled, sending shivers up and down his arms, settling at the back of his neck.

He hated that noise most of all.

–-

_Too many frivolous miracles._

First, a letter full of such threatening language that only a trek through a revolution-torn city to find his favorite pastries – as well as a not-quite-chance encounter with a certain demon – had been able to calm him down again.

Then, a commendation. Congratulations on performing your job perfectly as always.

And now, a “meditative retreat” – five months alone to think about what he should and shouldn’t be using his powers to achieve. No miracles allowed.

A month and a half in, he’d decided – he hadn’t the faintest idea.

Take the most simple of duties: sometimes, he was assigned to keep a person safe.

Did that mean use a miracle to stop them from being injured? Or to heal them afterwards? Or was he supposed to guide them, miracle-free, as if he were another human? _Do what seems best_ , he’d be told, but what seemed best to him never seemed best to anyone else.

Or protecting himself – his corporation, rather, since Aziraphale’s true self was rarely in danger. Could he use a miracle to avoid a dangerous situation? Heal himself from an injury? Was his body the same as a human body, or less valuable? Was all this a waste of Heaven’s resources when he could simply get a new body? How many miracles were equal to one body, anyway?

Questions he shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t have to ask. He should just _know._ Angels received their orders, obeyed them, and chose the best course of action, because that’s what angels _did._

Angels weren’t supposed to get confused.

But Aziraphale did. All the time. What did that make him?

–-

Crowley preferred to do everything by miracle.

Need new clothes? Manifest them.

Need money? There it is.

Food? Never bothered to learn to cook. When he was hungry, he pulled fully prepared meals out of the nearest cupboard.

Hell rarely tracked exactly what he did, as long as he could demonstrate evil had been accomplished.

But they did track where he was, using miracles. It didn’t do to be more than a few miles from where you were supposed to be.

This wasn’t anywhere _near_ Venice, which was a pity, because he’d rather like to be in Venice right now.

He stared around the bakery. “I don’t know. Just get me several things that are hot and edible.” He had a list, but it wasn’t helping. “Do you have a…stuffing? Or butter?”

“You can get butter from the general store,” the baker’s wife offered, putting together his packages.

“No. The shop person said they didn’t have any dairy.”

“He just meant milk and cream. They’ll have butter, and cheese if you want it.”

Crowley dragged the heel of his hand across his forehead. He’d _lived_ in agricultural societies. He knew perfectly well that butter and cheese were _both dairy._ “Fine. I’ll go back. How about the stuffing?”

“You’ll want to make your own.”

“Really don’t.”

“I can give you a family recipe!” She started writing in pencil on the brown wrapping of one of the packages. “You’ll need ground beef, sausage…”

A few minutes later, Crowley opened the door to the bitter cold wind outside, making all the bells in the wreath jangle up and down his already-raw nerves.

_Chk-chk-chk_

He paused, cracked his neck, and kept walking.

–-

Aziraphale finally had to return to the cabin, as the snow had piled up higher than his feet.

Only a single room – wood stove, table and benches, rug; there was a bed even though he didn’t sleep, a few pots and pans even though there was no food. 

No chair. No books. Well, one book.

Gabriel had left him a journal, and pen and ink. Encouraged him to write down his thoughts.

Aziraphale thought best when he was reading, talking, engaging with someone or something. For the first few weeks, he’d talked to himself a lot, arguing with the empty room, having mock conversations, even reciting poetry he had memorized.

But slowly the oppressive quiet had settled across his soul. And he found himself picking up the pen to write –

What? What could he write about? His doubts? His confusion? What would he even say?

When it got to be too much, he tried drawing, sketching out what he could see. That helped a little, but once he’d scribbled down images of the room, the hills outside, the one tree he liked to walk to…well, he was back to the same dilemma, what to write?

Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to list a few questions. Just so he could think about the answers.

–-

_Chk-chk-chk_

The door of the last shop slammed behind Crowley, bells clattering. Shaking his head to clear it, he checked his list one more time. It _looked_ like he had everything, though the ink was already smudging where snowflakes fell on it.

He settled the packages into the sled, tucking a blanket all around them, and pulled up the collar of his coat against the biting wind.

“Better leave room for yourself,” said the kid.

Crowley looked him up and down. Seventeen or so, son of the man who had rented him the sled and horse. He was supposed to drive it out and return with it.

“Nope. I’m driving, you’re staying.”

“That’s not how this works. We only have a few, and we need to be able to get supplies out in an emergency –”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Crowley handed over a pile of money. “This should cover the sled and the horse, in case I don’t come back. Plus a bit. Give it to your dad.” He considered the kid another moment. “You have, I don’t know, a girl you like? Boy? Anything?” The kid tried to give him a stubborn, blank look, but some of that pink wasn’t just from the cold. “Whatever, not my business.” Crowley handed over the rest of his money, saving only what he would need to get back to London. “Give him, her, or them something nice. Cheers.”

While the kid was still staring at the pile of money, Crowley climbed onto the runners of the sled and took the reins in both hands.

_Chk-chk-chk_

He felt that one in his stomach.

With another jingling of sleigh bells, he shook the reins –

And nothing happened.

“Go.”

Nothing.

“Move, horse!”

Now it was just embarrassing.

The kid leaned against the sled. “Are you sure? I don’t think you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course I don’t!” He jerked the reins back, trying to ignore the way the sound of bells hammered into his spine. “But no one can know where I’m going.”

With a shrug, the kid shoved the money into his pocket. “Pull on one side, gently, to turn. Not too sudden, it’ll tip over. _Whoa_ to slow down, _walk_ to go, and remember, you’re in charge.” He winked, and walked away with a swagger that wasn’t quite as good as the demon’s, but better suited to over six inches of snowfall.

Clutching the reins again, Crowley called: “Walk. WALK!” He shook them hard. “COME ON YOU BLESSED HORSE, WALK!”

Nothing moved.

–-

Once Aziraphale had started writing, it was hard to stop.

Page after page. Whatever entered his mind.

Questions. Thoughts. Doubts. Things he'd never put into words before.

It was nice to see the pages fill, one by one.

It was nice just seeing the ink flow.

Hearing the scratch of the pen fill the silence.

–-

Crowley got off the back of the sled and walked up to the horse, grabbing it by the bridle. “Listen, here, you, _I_ am in charge!”

The horse snorted and stomped directly onto his foot.

“Nghaa that was not – ugh!”

The horse shook its head, jingling the bells again and again until Crowley was ready to tear his own ears off, until Crowley let go and stepped back.

The horse lashed its tail.

“Look, fine.” Crowley grumbled trying to stand where the horse could see him clearly, despite the snow that was now falling thick. “You’re in charge if that’s what you want. But I need to get somewhere. I should have been there hours ago. Days ago. You are my only way of getting there. I have nothing to bribe you with. I promise, you get fed either way, you get brushed either way, and you will absolutely get enough apples and sugar to make you sick because I’m not doing anything else with those.”

He reached out a hand to touch the horse. He had lived in agricultural societies, but he was much more comfortable around the crops and plants than the animals. Still, rather to his surprise, the horse let him stroke its nose. “Please. This is more important than you can imagine. Just get me there.”

He stepped back onto the runners, picked up the reins. “Walk.”

The horse didn’t walk. It moved much quicker than that.

–-

Aziraphale lay down his pen, wiggling his fingers after all that writing. There were a lot of words in the book now. Perhaps he should read over them.

He found himself walking back to the door, stepping into the silent night outside again.

The snow was falling so fast it was almost a physical thing, blocking his view even where the light from the door should have been enough to see the edge of the woods. It spilled across the porch, piled at the corners of the cottage.

And still, everything was so quiet. Even the wind, which had picked up, seemed to carry only the flakes and not any sound –

Were those _sleigh bells?_

A moment later a horse came into view – one of the small, sturdy northern breeds – pushing on through the unbroken snow, pressing through the storm with determined strides, pulling behind it a small sled and clinging to the back of that –

“Crowley?”

“Whoa,” called the dark figure. “Whoa – I said whoa! We’re here!”

With a final jingle of bells, the horse stopped in front of the porch, and Crowley fell backwards, off the sled runners and into the snow.

“Crowley! What the Hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, Angel.”

“You’re supposed to be in Italy!”

“Yeah, I am. No, don’t worry, I can pick myself up.” He started to rise, then stumbled again.

Aziraphale rushed forward. “I’m – I didn’t realize – what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Bloody sleigh bells. Chase off evil spirits.” He clasped Aziraphale’s hand, pulling himself up. “I’ll be fine, just need to get a drink and warm up.”

“Of course, but – I don’t have any food or drink.”

With a very tired grin, Crowley tossed aside the blanket in the sled. “Happy Christmas, Angel.”

–-

Crowley had needed to compromise on a few things.

He had the goose, and what he was assured were all the ingredients needed for stuffing and gravy.

Potatoes, brussels sprouts, and parsnips had been easy to find; and something he was almost certain was redcurrant sauce.

There had been no plum pudding this far from England, or mince pies, or fruitcake – though he wasn’t certain fruitcake was something you _bought,_ it was possible all fruitcakes already existed and were simply eternally exchanged. He _had_ managed to get a variety of sweet pastries.

Lots of wine.

And two bundles of books – the ones he had picked out at stops on the way, and the ones he had taken from the shop. Aziraphale shouldn’t have been surprised Crowley knew his favorites, but the demon was pleased at his smile either way.

\--

Aziraphale's smile fell when he saw Crowley leading the horse through the door. He sprang in front of them, blocking the way.

"No. Absolutely not, out of the questions. I can't have a horse in the cabin!"

"You can't leave it outside, Angel, it's a storm! Don't humans still bring in their livestock in the winter?"

"I..." He realized he didn't know. But the cabin didn't have any stable or barn. "I thought you didn't like horses."

"I don't! But this one got me here and..." Crowley shrugged. "And it's as much of a bloody-minded stubborn bastard as you are, so you'll probably get along."

Aziraphale sighed. The horse looked adapted for winters outdoors, as much as any northern breed was, but the storm was only getting stronger. "How am I supposed to hide the fact that there's been a _horse_ in here when Gabriel returns? We can't miracle it clean."

"Eh, just tell them some traveler lost in the storm stayed here a while. It'll be true enough."

With a nod, Aziraphale stepped aside and let him pass.

\--

The first thing Crowley saw when he stepped in was the journal. He glanced at it just long enough to see that Aziraphale had written a _lot._

Then he picked it up and dropped it into the flames of the stove.

“Crowley!"

"It had to be done," the demon snarled, trying to hold in the anger he felt building inside.

"That was a private journal!”

“No. It wasn’t.” He pulled off his glasses and glared at Aziraphale. “What did you think, they were going to let you keep that? Ask you to tell them the important parts? They left you here alone to write your own confession. And it worked, didn't it?"

Aziraphale clenched his teeth, didn’t say anything.

"I don't know what you wrote, Angel. I don't care. Your thoughts are your own. But are you going to tell me that everything in that journal was safe to share with the Archangels?"

"I...I don't know," Aziraphale confessed, sinking into the chair, staring at the bare wood of the table. "I'm so _tired_ of being alone. So tired of doubting and keeping secrets and second-guessing every thought I have. I just...I sometimes wish it were over."

Crowley's stomach dropped at the idea of the world, of his life, with an Aziraphale-shaped hole in it. Nothing else would ever fill that. No one else could ever compare.

Uncertain, he reached out, placed a hand on the angel's shoulder. "I...I know it's hard. But don't give up." Aziraphale shook his head, eyes still staring ahead. "Hey. You're not alone now. I'll be here as long as I can. And...whatever thoughts you have, you can always tell me. Or, if you don't trust me, try the horse. It's a great listener."

The horse snorted angrily, and went back to investigating a cupboard in the corner. It stuck its nose in, probably looking for sugar or something the greedy bastard, and wound up knocking lose a pile of cooking pots that clattered noisily across the floor.

"Ah!" Aziraphale leapt to his feet. "I forgot those were over there! I never thought I would use them."

Crowley grinned, picking up the largest pot. "They're exactly what we'll need. This is going to be perfect."

–

It wasn't perfect.

Neither of them had ever cooked without miracles before. There was immediately an argument over how one peeled a potato, and what exactly stuffing was _for,_ really.

It wasn't perfect.

Half the food was burnt, the other half undercooked, and only the horse in the corner, happily working its way through its feedbag with a pile of apples and sugar cubes waiting for dessert, was truly satisfied with Christmas dinner that year.

It wasn't perfect.

But the jangle of the bells had ended, the silence had been driven from the cabin, and once again they were together.

And that, in a way, was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on my Tumblr!](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189544155497/christmas-without-miracles)
> 
> Historical notes:   
> \- No particular setting for this one, but I've tried to lean my description a little towards Germanic or even Scandanavian. The main point is, it's the middle of nowhere.  
> \- Sled/Sleigh: While researching 19th century European sleighs, I found a lot of the popular designs were essentially oversized dogsleds, so that's what Crowley has. This one is pulled by an Icelandic Horse, which are roughly the size of ponies but powerfully built - wikipedia describes them as having "spirited temperament and large personality" which seems to apply to this horse.  
> \- Sleigh Bells - because the horse and sleigh are very nearly silent while running (and sleighs can't brake abruptly in an emergency), the bells are necessary to let people know you're coming. A vague medieval/pagan tradition indicates they also drove off evil spirits, similar to jack-o-lanterns, or the horseshoe over Anathema's cottage.  
> \- Stuffing recipe - this is my mother's stuffing recipe and it is delicious, and probably German. I did not know that most Americans made bread-based stuffings from boxes until I was in college and was consequently very confused.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated. :)


	7. Songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Garden of Eden, one Serpent has just emerged from Hell to discover the pleasures of Earth, when a wind brings him a familiar sound...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 08 - Choir
> 
> Inspired by [this choir song, "Songbird"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgJ6-p9SaDY&feature=youtu.be) (sung here by some very talented young ladies). I am now quite obsessed with this song.

08 – Choir

_I am a Songbird; I will sing anything  
Give me a tune, I will spin you gold.  
Closer you come to the Songbird weaving  
Stronger the thread of the music’s hold._

Crawley had only been on Earth for a few minutes, but already it was much better than Hell.

It wasn’t even a competition.

Did Hell have sunlight that warmed you to your core, filling you with energy? Did Hell have flowers that released enticing scents into the air, little clouds of sweetness? Did Hell have tree branches you could drape yourself across, not to mention room to just stretch and stretch until you ran out of body?

No, Earth was _infinitely_ preferable.

Then, just as an experiment, he tried shifting to something resembling his former angelic body and oh _Satan_ –

It got better.

Colors!

So many colors, bright reds and deep greens and endless blue sky.

Running barefoot across the grass, feeling the soft blades bend beneath his feet, cushioning them, rising back up unbroken.

The wind, blowing across his skin, through his hair, ruffling his feathers, coolness mixed with the heat of the day.

He tried dipping a toe into the lake and the sensation was so amazing he completely lost track of what it was he had come here to do. For so many joyous moments, unwatched, he splashed through the water, droplets soaring into the sky above.

As he sat near the base of the Wall, wings spread to catch every puff of wind, every golden speck of warmth from the midday sun, just on the edge of a drowsiness he thought might be worth investigating – something drifted across his hearing, borne by the breeze.

Unlike everything else, this wasn’t one of the new wonders of Creation. This was something old, something from before Time. Something that stirred a memory from before the Fall.

Music.

Somewhere, someone was singing.

As if mesmerized, Crawley stood again, turning his head to better catch the faint breath of sound, like a gleaming thread of gold, beckoning, pulling him, drawing him in.

There, at the top of the Wall – another figure with wings spread, catching the gentle wind, white feathers dyed amber-gold in the sunlight.

A single voice, rising and falling in a simple chant, at once joyful and sad; the low notes spoke of weariness, despair, even loss, but again and again the voice climbed slowly up to something sublime, filled with wonder and hope.

And yet…something was missing. Crawley didn’t know the words – couldn’t quite _remember_ the words – but the song felt incomplete.

As the voice rose and fell again, the demon closed his eyes, casting his mind back to things he had resolved never to think of again.

The choirs of Heaven, hundreds of thousands of voices raised in perfect celestial harmony, expressing the ineffable love and adoration that was the soul of every angel. Each song was unique, each voice telling its own story, but they blended nonetheless into something that was almost terrifying in its majesty –

Of course.

You couldn’t have a choir with only one voice.

One angel stood alone on the Wall, cut off from everything he’d ever known, voice carried on the breeze, winding itself across Creation in search of accompaniment that would never come.

There was no singing in Hell.

There was no rule against it, exactly, but angelic song was fueled by those powerful, wordless emotions. There was no love in Hell, no joy, no hope.

What was there for a demon to feel, except fear?

Could you sing about fear?

Wasn’t that the entire point of this song?

As the chant began another cycle, Crawley felt something unfold in him; and as the angel raised his voice, the demon joined him.

The angel stopped, startled, perhaps, to actually hear a response, but Crawley kept going, pouring out everything he felt.

Fear and loneliness, heartbreak and betrayal, balanced by the simple delights of splashing water and sunlight and soft grass and freedom, freedom to smile and to run and to sing.

And then the angel’s voice was back again, matching his, twining around it, weaving together golden sunlight and silvery moonlight, joy and pain and heartbreak and hope melding into harmonies and counterpoints that Crawley didn’t even know how to look for, but you never really forget, do you?

Stronger and stronger the music grew, pulling angel and demon towards each other, binding them together. It felt like flying – something else Crawley hadn’t done since the Fall – and closing his eyes he could imagine himself and the angel, soaring, carried by the currents of air, away across the land, through the sky, to the sea that he had never seen, only heard of…

They cast their voices out on the wind, and they echoed across the Garden.

Somewhere the Man and the Woman paused, turning their heads, listening, receiving the first gift, the one their guardians weren’t even aware of giving, the one that would echo through the minds and hearts of every generation of humanity.

It seemed to go on forever – for days – for measures of time that didn’t even have names yet.

Until finally the song ended, not on a crescendo, but on a single sweet note held, unbroken, soft but impossibly long. Silence fell again.

Crawley looked up at the angel, white wings and flaming sword, and nodded his head in thanks.

After almost too long a pause, the angel nodded as well.

It was a moment neither would speak of for six thousand years.

It was a moment neither would ever forget.

The angel turned back to his duty, while the demon went off to make some trouble.

_Sing, little Songbirds, call to your lovers.  
Draw them in completely.  
You, little Songbirds, you can sing anything.  
I follow the wind and I come your way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Though the story was inspired by "Songbird," I'm actually imagining the heavenly song as something like a [Gregorian Chant.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kK5AohCMX0U&feature=youtu.be) Actually quite simple chants, sung unaccompanied as part of religious services, they have a certain beauty.
> 
> Originally posted [ on Tumblr.](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189561971302/songbird)


	8. Sapling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mount Etna, 3,000 BC: After a volcanic eruption, a young sapling overhears an encounter between an angel and a demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 09 - Chestnuts

Small trees are not aware of much.

The little sapling didn’t know what a volcano was, or what _eruption_ meant, or how close it had come to being subsumed entirely in boiling lava. It was rather shocked when a sudden rush of earth broke loose from further up the slope, completely burying it and all the other plants growing nearby.

It should have snapped, been torn completely out of the ground, like all the others. But luck, perhaps, had been on its side.

This was certainly a new experience. The little sapling had only emerged from its chestnut this past spring, had only reached the sunlight a few weeks before. But being submerged was different this time. Dangerous.

A few leaves on one side of its forked stem (too small to even call it a trunk) still stood above the earth. Not much at all.

It should have died, slowly starved of sunlight.

Except that a pair of hands, digging in the earth, uncovered it. They were gentle and patient, not at all matching the grumbling voice that came along with them.

“Lousy place to grow. Whatever squirrel buried you here didn’t do you any favors. Might as well have just eaten you and saved you the trouble.”

The sapling slowly emerged, long as the arms that were digging it free, thinner than the smallest finger. Its stem was bent, snapped almost through along one branch of the fork.

“Ah, bless it. That doesn’t look good. You’re going to give up now, aren’t you? Going to tell me it’s too much damage, you can’t go on. I don’t want to hear it. Once I get this cleared, I don’t want any excuses from –”

“Crawley? Is that you?”

“Angel.” A growl. “What are you up to? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Why are you here? Is this your doing?”

The hands moved away, the black robed figure springing up. _“My_ doing? You think I run around causing volcanic eruptions and landslides and natural disasters?” The foot lashed out, kicking aside a few rocks. “I seem to remember, _last_ time we talked it was _your_ side pulling all that.”

“My side – That was an entirely different situation.”

“Yes. God was angry and drowned all the sinful people in a great Flood. Well done. How’s the recovery going in that area? Still sin-free?” The silence might have been telling to another man-shaped being, but the tree was still trying to work out what a _Flood_ might be. In a softer voice, the figure continued: “How do I know you’re not here to wipe out all the people on this island, too?”

“I’m not. If they’re good people, they don’t have to worry about that.”

“Don’t they? What are the rules, Aziraphale? Do they even know what not to do?” He settled back down, continuing his work, moving earth from around the sapling. As each bundle of leaves found the air and sun again, the little tree felt relief. “Why did you even come here, Angel?”

“I was…well, I was looking for you, in a way. There have been rumors that some monster lives on or under this mountain. Er, a man with a hundred fire-breathing snake heads, I believe.”

The figure threw back his head and laughed. “Humans! What will they think of next?” He tossed aside a few more stones. “And? I assume they sent you to find out if the monster was really a demon. Now what are you supposed to do? Kill me? Bury me under the mountain for all time?”

“Hardly!” The second figure’s voice went very high. “I’m only here to…to determine whether you are causing these disasters.”

“This again?” The figure ran a finger along the sapling’s stem, reminding it how to stand up straight. But the little tree had become bent in the earth, its newborn bark soft and weak. It bowed down again, leaves pointing away from the sun. “The mountain erupted because it’s a volcano. It keeps erupting because it’s a very _active_ volcano. I spread a rumor that a horrible monster lives here so that people wouldn’t try to make their homes _on a volcano_ because humans are just the right combination of stubborn and stupid. And I’m here now because…” Fingers gently rubbed one of the sapling’s leaves. “…because humans aren’t the only ones who get hurt in these disasters.” He stood up again.

“Where are you going now?”

“Well, apparently after all the work I put into digging it out, this sapling doesn’t want to stand up anymore. Lazy plants. I’m going to go find a stick or something so I can stake it upright. Probably just get buried again in the next eruption, but maybe it’ll get lucky.” Feet stomped away across the bare earth.

A few moments later, the other figure approached. “I honestly don’t know what to make of him,” he confessed, half to himself, half to the sapling. “Angry and coarse and unkind, and yet…and yet, here you are, free of the earth. Why?” Soft fingers felt their way up the stem, and every where they brushed the sapling felt stronger, grew straighter. The broken fork knitted itself back together. “There. That should help.”

“Can I tell you a secret, little tree?” The white robed figure bent closer. “I don’t think he’s really unkind at all. He speaks as if he is, oh, he says some awful things. But the questions he asks…well, they make a lot of sense.”

The figure sucked in a breath, sat silent for a long time. The only response to the comment, though, was a small breeze that stirred the sapling’s leaves.

The figure finally continued in a thicker voice. “I… I always understood that questions, doubts, those were signs of a sick mind. A lack of faith. Some strain of selfishness or cruelty, seeking things better left unknown. But his questions…how _are_ the humans supposed to be good if they don’t know what we want? How does killing them help them learn their lesson?”

Fingers combed through the earth. “Why wasn’t _I_ sent to help after the eruption? Why is he the one here to heal the mountain, while I come looking for a fight?”

Even the sapling recognized that these questions had not come from the first figure.

“Do you know what they would do to me, little tree, if they heard me asking these things? No, leave these questions to the demon. I… I must follow orders. But there’s no harm, I suppose, in following my orders in the way that seems best to me.”

The fingers gently ran across a leaf. “Grow strong, little tree. He cares for you, in his way, and, well…I suppose we don’t want to let him down, do we?”

Footsteps echoed across the mountainside. “Still here, Angel? I hope you’re not teaching that sapling to be all soft and pitiable. No one’s going to come and care for it up here.”

“Of course not.” The second figure stood up, brushing off white robes. “I was just wondering… is there anything I can do to help? I do have to _thoroughly_ check this mountain for hundred-headed snake monsters, and I may as well make myself useful while I’m about it.”

“Nh.” The black-robed figure knelt beside the sapling. “I suppose there’s a lot of ground to cover. Head over that way and see if anything else is sticking out of the ground.” He gestured vaguely. “I’ll come show you what to look for in a minute.”

Once the other figure was gone, he began hammering a long branch into the ground beside the sapling. “Useless angel. Probably doesn’t even know a live plant from a dead one. He’ll spend half the day trying to rescue dead bushes.” A heavy breath. “At least he’s trying. That’s more than I ever expected, really. Sometimes I even think he actually listens.”

The fingers paused, picking at the edge of the robe, pulling out threads. “Do you have any idea how rare that is? Of course you don’t, you’re a tree. Barely even that. But no one – _no one_ – listens to me. Just ‘shut up, Crawley,’ and ‘do your assignment, Crawley,’ and ‘one more question and you’ll regret ever trying to have an original thought…’”

Each thread was carefully looped around the sapling, tying it to the branch, giving it support, reminding it how to grow. “Questions are dangerous. He shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t try to make him ask. If anything happened to him… Well, I’d say ‘I’d never forgive myself,’ but I’m already unforgiveable, aren’t I? But I won’t let that happen. I won’t.”

The figure paused, looking at the sapling and the piled-up earth around it. “That’s enough from me. You’ll get enough sunlight; you have room to grow. It’s up to you now.” He placed two fingers on the ground where the stem emerged. “I saw him talking to you. Sign that he’s going mad, if you ask me. But I guess he likes you. So you’re not allowed to give up, no matter what. You hear me? He deserves better than that.”

The second figure called from the distance, “Crawley! I think I found something!”

“We’ll see about that,” he growled, standing up and walking away. “Angel! Don’t even touch it until I get over there.”

And the sapling was left alone. Growing quietly on the eastern face of a volcano, with nothing for company but the memory of the touch of an angel and a demon, of the words they had spoken, words brimming with emotion that they could no more understand than the little tree could.

But all that emotion worked its way into trunk and root and leaf.

And the tree grew, and grew, and grew.

Until, five thousand years later, a figure in black and another in white visited Mt. Etna again. The circle of enormous trunks formed a grove almost two hundred feet across, all linked in one root system, growing as strong as ever. A fence protected the Hundred-Horse Chestnut tree from curious tourists, but barriers had never kept these two from where they wanted to be.

“According to this,” said the figure in white, “this is the oldest tree in all of Europe. _And_ the largest! Can you imagine, my dear?”

“Eh, it’s not _that_ old,” grumbled the figure in black, digging through a bag of roasted sweet chestnuts. “I mean, it isn’t as old as _us.”_

“I’m sure we’ve been here before. This mountain looks very familiar.”

“Of course we have. We’ve been _everywhere_ before.” He popped a chestnut into his mouth and chewed threateningly where the tree could see him. “If it’s important, you’ll remember.”

“I suppose I will. Oh, look over there!” The figure in white wandered off to look at the way one of the trunks grew, tall and slightly twisted.

The other figure leaned against the thickest trunk at the front of the grove, continuing to pick at the bag of chestnuts the shop had insisted came from this very tree. “I think you’ve done well for yourself,” he said, gazing up at the winter-bare branches that still grew in thick with green every spring. “Didn’t give up. Don’t expect applause from me, though.”

The eyes – hidden behind black lenses – drifted over to the other figure again. “I’m starting to think I did well for myself, too. Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll just get all sappy. To tell you the truth, I don’t know why he sticks around, but I’ll never take it for granted.”

He pulled off his lenses to glare at the next trunk beside him. “Now _I’m_ getting all sappy. You just keep growing or you’ll hear from me again.” Then he pushed off and sauntered into the grove. “Angel, are you going to eat these or not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on my Tumblr!](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189694246462/sapling)
> 
> As I mentioned previously, I used this challenge to do a few experimental things. In this case, the story didn't feel right narrated from either Crowley's or Aziraphale's POV, so I did the tree's instead! Turns out, narrating from a plant's POV isn't that easy...
> 
> History notes:  
> \- The Hundred Horse Chestnut tree on Mount Etna, Sicily, is the oldest tree in Europe and likely one of the oldest in the world. Estimates range from 2,000 to 4,000 years old, with some arguing almost 5,000. (I went with that to be dramatic. 4,000 is far more likely.) Despite being only 5 miles from the crater of a very large and very active volcano, it continues to thrive.  
> \- Despite various legends of Mt. Etna being the prison of Typhon (a hundred-headed snake man) or the forge of Hephaestus, not to mention very real and very dangerous earthquakes and eruptions, humans have been living on it since at least the 8th century BC. The fact that volcanic soil is incredibly fertile probably keeps bringing them back, despite Crowley’s best efforts.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	9. Inflict Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Century CE, somewhere in the Middle East. Aziraphale and St. Bartholomew arrive in a village beset by illness, looking for the demon responsible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 - Silver and Gold
> 
> TW for the aftermath of some off-screen violence. Nothing graphic, but brace yourself. 
> 
> [For those who need to know, this is Hurt-Bordering-on-Whump, followed by Humor, then Comfort. If you need to skip this one, I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I can.]

Aziraphale slipped through the door of the temple, losing himself in the darkness within. It took a small miracle to make sure none of the gathered crowd noticed him, but only a small one – all eyes were on Bartholomew as he assured them that the terrifying demon who had brought pestilence and death to the countryside had been contained, would soon be disposed of, the people would be saved if they professed their faith –

All according to the missionary script, of course, but it was the _demon_ Aziraphale worried about. That was more than metaphor and rhetoric – he could sense it. The curses it cast on this helpless village had been clearer than a bonfire, catching his attention from half a kingdom away.

There were still a few dozen representatives of Hell at play in the world, several of them quite dangerous. Perhaps more than a single human could handle, however much that human had been blessed by Heaven. He would need to see for himself, and decide whether more direct intervention was necessary.

Picking up a small oil lamp, Aziraphale stepped deeper into the gloom. Here and there, the light reflected off the gold and silver of idols and sacred images, creating uncertain shapes that shifted in the darkness. Why, that one reflection ahead looked almost like a pair of eyes –

They lifted and focused straight on him. Enormous eyes, filled with anger, mirroring the light, adding shades of danger, promises of pain. Inhuman eyes, golden, unblinking, cut by vertical pupils…

“Crawley?” He called in disbelief.

_“Crowley.”_

Even heavily shadowed, Aziraphale could make out the familiar lines of the face, the arrogant sneer – though the eyes were changed. He’d only seen them in this serpentine form once before, during that first conversation on the wall of Eden.

“What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like, Angel? I’m preparing to be exorcised.”

Aziraphale took another step closer, and in the flickering light saw –

Gold and silver chains, wrapped around his arms, pulling them back against the enormous golden idol so that the demon hung by his wrists.

Another chain twisted across his chest, over and under his black wings, binding them in place.

Crowley turned his face away from the light, growling low. His arms tensed, links of the chains digging into wiry muscle.

“Are you the one they sent to tear out my soul?”

“Crowley, stop being so dramatic, you can survive an exorcism.” The angel took another step forward, and again Crowley balled his fists, tension rippling across his bare chest. A rather poor attempt at intimidation, since he still refused to look at the angel.

Of course, he could miracle himself free whenever he wanted – Crowley loved his dramatic roles, and today he was apparently playing the martyr. “You are the last demon I expected to see here – didn’t you leave for the Far East over a year ago?”

“I wanted to grow my hair back first. Seemed as good a place as any to wait it out.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but sure enough the short curls Crowley had sported at their one meeting in Rome were now nearly down to his chin. “And this is what you do to entertain yourself in the meantime? I should have known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I could _feel_ you inflicting blight and disease on these people from twenty miles away! And what do I find – a village where nearly every person has cholera! And you! Why, Crowley?”

“Because I’m a demon,” he said, breath sharp, voice heavy with fury.

“Really.” Aziraphale tutted, trying to act as though this was only a minor disappointment, as if he’d never come to expect more from the demon who still sullenly refused to meet his eye. “I suspected something like that. Bartholomew was preaching in the area, so I sent him on a Holy Quest to find the demon responsible. I never thought it would be _you.”_

“And I never thought the Archangels were big on sharing power. Giving your new… _saints_ Heavenly powers? Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“I don’t make those decisions. I just search for the wiles of the Evil One and I thwart them.” He took another step closer, bringing the lamp towards Crowley’s face, even as the demon made a futile attempt to pull away. “And after what you’ve done, don’t tell me you don’t deserve –”

 _“Aziraphale!”_ The plea was desperate, almost broken, as he squirmed in his chains, pushing himself against the idol behind him.

The angel looked more closely at the chains, the gold and silver chains, alternating links glowing faintly like sunlight and moonlight in the dark temple. At the way they grew brighter with every step Aziraphale took.

At the burns where they dug into Crowley’s skin.

“Those chains…” he realized. “They’re –”

“Blessed.” Crowley turned to face him now, and Aziraphale could see at last that his eyes were wide not with anger, but pain – that he wasn’t flexing to try and intimidate, but writhing in anguish. He wasn’t even sneering – his lips were split, bleeding from a wound on the right side of his mouth, a cut on his left cheek. “You gave him powers and he used them.”

Aziraphale stumbled away, dropping the lamp, shattering it on the temple floor. He could still see the glow of Crowley’s eyes, and that of the chains, fainter now that his Angelic Grace wasn’t fueling them.

With a clink of gold on silver, Crowley relaxed, letting out a small sigh of relief.

“Don’t think this – this changes anything,” Aziraphale snapped, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He’d only wanted to _talk._ The idea that he’d been used to hurt Crowley – even unwittingly, even knowing what had happened… “This whole village is sick because of you –”

“You idiot!” And this time it really was anger in his voice. “They’re sick because there’s a city upriver. The water is contaminated.”

“But I sensed you –”

“I’m a demon.” Slow shaky breath. “I can’t purify water, and I can’t heal any disease I didn’t cause. So the only thing I could do was inflict something even worse, burn the real disease out of their systems, and _then_ cure them. Over and over because they _keep getting sick.”_

“But…why…”

“Because your lot wasn’t going to do it!” Crowley rattled at the chains. “Now Heaven finally decides to share its powers and what do we get? Silly parlor tricks and warriors – where are the _healers?_ When your friend outside gets rid of me, is he going to stay and take care of them? Is he going to find them clean water? _Are you?”_

“Crowley,” Azirapahle started to take step forward, but changed his mind when the demon gasped and tried to pull away again. “You should have said something. You shouldn’t have tried to fight –”

“What do you take me for?” He sagged in his chains again. “Of course I didn’t try to fight. The temple was full of people from the villages, they came for healing. I didn’t want them to get caught in the middle of a fight with a Holy Warrior.” He turned his head just a little, showing off the cut on his cheek, though Azirapahle could hardly see it in the dark. “I got this for trying to explain myself.” Then he shrugged, touching his tongue to the split lip. “And this one for telling him exactly what kind of bastard he is.”

For a long moment, they were both silent, Aziraphale rubbing his palms together slowly. “You…were really here healing them for a year?” He should demand proof. No proper angel would believe such an outrageous story. It was obviously some kind of deceit.

“It was exhausting. I got really sloppy towards the end, but…” A humorless chuckle. “I kept hoping _you_ would notice. Come lend a hand.”

With a sinking heart, Aziraphale realized he was no proper angel.

The noise of the crowd outside was growing louder. Bartholomew would be in any moment. “It – the exorcism shouldn’t be too bad. Similar to smiting.”

“Not too bad? Do you even _know_ what smiting feels like? I’ll be lucky to have enough strength to leave Hell this _century!”_

“There isn’t much I can _do!”_ He tried to step forward, again causing the blessed chains to flare in the darkness.

The doors of the temple burst open, Bartholomew leading in a hundred villagers with lamps and candles, filling the space with brilliant light.

“Behold, your so-called savoir, Astoreth."

"Astoreth? How many names do you have?"

"Is that really important right now?

"Look upon the true face of the being you worshiped!” The saint's voice boomed through the temple.

“They _worshiped_ you?”

“I told them not to!” Crowley complained. “You know humans, they’ll worship anything!”

The angel could feel the heat of Bartholomew’s holy aura as he approached, causing the chains to glow once more. “For the crimes you have committed against these people, I sentence you to utter extinction.”

“I say,” Aziraphale waved a hand, “that sounds a bit extreme…”

“Think of something!” Crowley ground out.

“Prepare for your doom!” The chains burst into fire.

_“AZIRAPHALE!”_

“Right.” Aziraphale straightened his robes. “I’m terribly sorry about this.”

–

The true form of an angel would immediately render any human who saw it into little more than a pile of ash.

What Aziraphale showed the crowd – an enormous pillar of fire, surrounded by wings and covered in a hundred blue eyes – was about a third of the way to his true self.

The temple filled with Grace, the whole village, curing people for miles in every direction, purifying the river, bringing peace to every heart even as they trembled in awe. The chains around the demon shattered like glass.

With a voice that shook the temple, toppling the idols and images (and anything else that wasn’t nailed down), the holy presence bid the people:

LOOK UPON THIS THING THAT YOU HAVE WORSHIPED. THIS HORRIBLE, WRETCHED, TWISTED THING.

“Seems a bit unnecessary,” grumbled the demon in a heap on the ground.

I SHALL DRIVE IT AWAY INTO THE WILDERNESS FROM WHENCE IT CAME, AND IT SHALL NEVER MORE RETURN TO CURSE YOU.

Many in the crowd fell to their knees, openly weeping at the glorious form before them.

TO BARTHOLOMEW I GRANT A NEW QUEST. LEAD THESE PEOPLE UPRIVER, TO A NEW LAND, WHERE DISEASE AND PESTILENCE WILL TROUBLE THEM NO MORE.

The saint bowed to the vision before him until he was nearly prostrate.

(CROWLEY. THAT’S YOUR CUE.)

“Oh. Right.” The demon rose onto shaky legs and moved through the shocked crowd as quickly as he could. “Ah. Oh, no. What a horrible wonderful being. However shall I escape.”

RIGHT. THAT’S SETTLED. I’LL JUST FOLLOW THAT…DASTARDLY FELLOW. ENJOY YOUR NEW HOME. MIND HOW YOU GO.

The pillar of light drifted, stately but unstoppable, through the crowd and out the temple doors.

Slowly, the villagers climbed back to their feet, clutching at each other’s hands, amazed to feel for the first time in so long – truly healthy, truly happy. All quarrels were forgotten in the face of the amazing gift of love that had been planted in their hearts –

OH. ONE OTHER THING. STOP DISPOSING OF YOUR WASTE IN THE RIVER. IT IS _MOST_ UNHYGIENIC!

–

Many miles away, Aziraphale and Crowley rested on a jumble of rocks in a clearing. The angel ran his fingers over the burns, perfect impressions of gold and silver chains, already turning into scars.

“It’s no use,” Crowley said. “Angelic aura, blessed chains. Regular healing won’t cut it, and if you give me the full dose, I’ll probably explode.”

“I can’t help feeling responsible,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley shot him a glare, biting his tongue to keep from shouting _because you were responsible._ The angel had only saved him from a disaster of his _own_ making. Crowley wasn't sure how he felt about Aziraphale right now. Wasn't sure how he'd ever feel about him again.

Seemingly oblivious, the angel reached out to touch the cut on Crowley’s cheek. “Even this one won’t mend.”

“Well, he hit me with the chains, didn’t he?” Crowley shoved the hand away roughly. “I suppose I’ll just have to keep them. As a reminder. At least it’ll make an impressive story back in Hell.”

Aziraphale took his hand, turning it over to look at the scar forming across the palm. “There is…one thing I can try.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley grunted. "Just go. Stop worrying about me."

“Please. I inflicted this on you. Let me try."

“Fine.” That _look._ Crowley was going to have to learn to resist that look. “Just...try not to destroy me.”

Lifting the demon's palm, Aziraphale pressed his lips to the scar.

Crowley’s veins filled with – fire and ice, silver and gold, starlight and moonbeams and the raw, uncontrolled power of lightning, racing across his hand, burning through his skin, drowning him in – ecstasy, joy, bliss –

His hand convulsed, he gasped, eyes opening wide as every sensation of pleasure and pain he'd ever felt poured through him at once, all and more –

And in less than a second, Aziraphale lowered his trembling hand, the scar removed, skin smooth and unbroken again.

“I think I can remove all of them. If you can bear it.”

Bear it? It had been like a touch from an angel's true form. Crowley wasn't sure how he'd _survived_ it. A second round might completely destroy him.

And yet...

Gulping, trying to brace himself, Crowley nodded.

It seemed to take hours. Perhaps it did.

Each brush of the lips an eternity of pleasure and pain, like Falling and Rising at the same time, and the interval between a mindless, numbing void, empty of any sensation or thought.

Up one arm, down the other. Chest. Back. Wings. Crowley would have wept if the tears hadn’t already been burned out of his eyes.

Finally, all that remained were the cut on his cheek, and the split lip.

Somehow, that was worse than anything else.

Aziraphale sat, Crowley’s chin cupped in his hand, staring at the last wounds clinically.

“You…really, Angel, you don’t…that is, if you don’t want to…”

“Do you wish to carry these scars for eternity?”

Crowley swallowed. “Honestly…this might be too much for me…”

Another detached look, and a small nod. “These aren’t as bad as the burns. Likely because the chain only hit you briefly. I should be able to heal them with much less power.”

Before Crowley could say anything, Aziraphale had leaned in and brushed his lips across his cheek and _oh Satan_ without the overwhelming power he could feel them, soft and warm and just a tingle of delight where they touched and he didn’t know if that was the healing or something else…

This was _so much worse._

Aziraphale hovered above his lips.

Some strange new emotion rose in his chest, anticipation mixed with panic.

“Hey. Angel…”

“If you want me to do this, _don’t move.”_

He sat very, very still.

One on the top, where regular skin met lip, gentle, quick.

One on the bottom, pressing just a little more, so Crowley could feel the plumpness of Aziraphale’s lips.

It was over before he could move, before he could betray something he’d never realized he felt before, but was now desperate to keep hidden.

But Aziraphale didn’t pull away. He sat, not even an inch between them, breaths still mingling, blue eyes filling Crowley’s entire world.

“I suppose the villagers were grateful. That you cared for them.” The softest whisper.

“Don’t know what they think of me now.” His voice trembled, but he couldn’t think why. The healing was over. “At least they’re alive.”

“What you did, Crowley. It won’t go unappreciated.”

And Aziraphale leaned in again but there was nothing left to heal, just lips, soft and warm and slightly parted, pressing against his, tearing out his soul, pulling him to pieces.

Crowley’s golden eyes drifted shut, his hand reached up to brush one silver curl. His own lips parted and if he just tilted his head surely he could –

Gone. Aziraphale stood up and stepped away. “I hope I have healed all the wounds I inflicted on you.”

And then the angel left, taking Crowley’s voice and breath and heart with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on my Tumblr.](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189604662517/inflict-wounds)
> 
> Historical notes:  
> \- Bartholomew is named as one of the Apostles in three Gospels (not John). In the first century, he preached in "The East," generally identified as India or Armenia. Most of the records are Medieval, and not super accurate in their details.  
> \- One legend tells that Bartholomew faced off against a devil known as Astaroth, who the local people believed had been healing them, but had actually been corrupting their souls. Astaroth was driven out into the wilderness, his true form revealed, angels came and either assisted with the driving out or just generally sang praises, people rushed to be baptized, etc.  
> \- Astaroth is a male equivalent to Ashtoreth (possibly created by translation error), herself derived from the Phoenician Astarte, the Babylonian Ishtar, and ultimately the Sumerian Inanna. Medieval demonology often interpreted non-Christian deities as demons or devils who corrupted souls by fooling humans into worshiping them. Astaroth was supposed to be a powerful demon: an archdemon, Duke of Hell or equivalent, depending on your source. He is depicted as a foul, possibly nude, angel riding a dragon and carrying a serpent. While Inanna was a goddess of fertility and war, Astaroth is associated with temptation via laziness, self-doubt and rationalized philosophy; he also answers all questions put to him and gives mortals control over serpents. Really his Wikipedia page is kind of a fascinating trip.  
> \- Bartholomew would later go on to be martyred via flaying. That's not pretty.  
> \- You are free to Google Bartholomew and the Demon if you want more information. I won't post links because a lot of the websites look a little sketchy, and frankly the accounts are varying degrees of racist (which you should expect with Medieval accounts). I've mixed details from a few different versions.  
> \- Bartholomew and the demon have nothing whatsoever to do with Christmas. I went on a winter-themed museum tour and the docent went off-topic to tell us this story. The Icon he showed us was covered in gold leaf and I was inspired. That's it. That's your holiday connection.  
> \- Inflict Wounds in a Dungeons and Dragons spell that is the opposite of Cure Wounds (though there should be a modifier: Cure/Inflict Light Wounds, etc).
> 
> I was very tired when I wrote this, and when I got to the final scene my brain screamed WE'RE DOING THIS and it all got a little out of my control.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	10. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Throughout history, Aziraphale learns that wanting things can get...complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11\. Pine

**Pine: To yearn intensely and persistently for something unattainable.**

**\--**

The first thing Aziraphale ever remembered wanting was a twig of evergreen.

“It’s the smell I miss, really,” he explained over the campfire, out of sight of the humans in their own camp. He and Crawley sometimes waited out the nighttime hours together, mulling over their thoughts of the world. “The other plants just don’t smell the same.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Crawley, who hadn’t actually paid attention to the smells in Eden. “Any particular kind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. White pine? Or black? I don’t think it matters.”

The next day, Crawley disappeared, as he sometimes did. Aziraphale kept a sharp eye on the humans, to make sure the serpent wasn’t causing trouble again, but no sign of him there.

After almost a week, the demon returned, bearing a branch of black pine, the sap still sticky and fresh. “Saw some of this when they sent me up north,” he said, handing it over.

It smelled even better than Aziraphale remembered.

–-

The first thing that Aziraphale really missed – in a deep, intense way – was a song played on a reed flute, the words lost to time.

“I don’t know why I miss it so,” he sighed, a century after he’d last heard it. “It just popped into my head one day and I felt… sad.”

“Nostalgic, probably,” corrected Crawley, sampling a new ale. “How did it go?”

“You know the one. “Dee-dum-dee-dum-dee-da-dee-dum.”

“Devastatingly beautiful,” Crawley laughed. “That could be any song!”

“Fine. It was the one we heard that first time we went to Knossos.”

The demon nodded slowly this time. “Ah, that _was_ a lovely song. Whoever wrote it really understood pain.”

“I don’t know about pain, but…” Aziraphale sighed, looking out the window at the driving snow, feeling the strange lethargy take him again. “Lately I’ve not been able to get it out of my head. Something to do with the long nights and cold weather, I’m sure.”

Four evenings later, Aziraphale suddenly heard a strange, high wailing sound outside the inn where he was staying. He rushed out to find Crawley with a reed flute he’d made himself, carousing drunkenly in the street, trying to play the lost tune.

The angel had very nearly laughed himself sick before taking the flute for himself. By the morning they’d managed to mostly reconstruct the song.

They invented new lyrics – in Aziraphale’s, a tiny bird flew home in the spring; in Crawley’s the bird ate some strange berries and got very ill all over town.

The angel wanted to scold him, but he was too busy laughing.

–-

The longest Aziraphale ever yearned for something, was during the years he spent in Rome, working alongside the imperial family, influencing the younger members towards good.

He would never admit how draining the job was, how isolated it made him feel. He longed for simple companionship, someone he could talk to, even just for a day. Someone he could be himself around, instead of playing a part.

Then he’d heard a familiar grumbling – turning to the counter of the thermopolium, he saw a figure in black toga (if you could call that a toga) and red hair. He jumped up, abandoning his table and his game, determined to seize this opportunity no matter what.

Though he probably should have taken a moment to come up with something to say first.

Still, several plates of oysters and copious amounts of wine later, they ambled back up the street, passing the last jug back and forth between them, Crowley quite nearly smiling.

“My dear fellow, what is that thing on your head?”

“Oh, I forgot.” He pulled off the laurel wreath, studying the silver leaves where they reflected the moonlight. “Won this, you know. Fair and square.”

“You had a sussez-suckstes- victorious military campaign?” Aziraphale took another sip of wine. “Awarded a triumph an’ all?”

“Nah. Just arm wrestled a general.” He chuckled, tossing the wreath in the air, and trying to catch it – missing it, so that it clattered and rolled away up the street. “Caligula said it was the greatest military victory he’d ever seen.”

“I’m starting to think that child does not have much of a background in warfare,” Aziraphale opined as Crowley snatched the wine away.

“You get executed for saying things like that,” Crowley scolded.

The angel gave his best look of utter shock, rubbing at his throat, until he and Crowley both burst into gales of laughter, stumbling against each other in the street.

–-

The thing Aziraphale wanted the most was for Crowley to be safe. This, perhaps, went on longer than any other desire, but it rose and fell, moved from the front of his mind to the back, pushed aside but never fulfilled.

He felt it in the fifteenth century, and the sixteenth, and the seventeenth. Meeting in taverns and tea houses and theaters, trading jobs, planning miracles and temptations together.

Again and again a worry rose within him, this could go wrong, they could find out, they could hurt him, destroy him.

But he didn’t allow the desperate fear of it to overtake him until the day he thought Crowley might destroy himself.

“Just insurance,” he said.

Aziraphale put his foot down. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – give Crowley the means to end his own life, to take that smile and that laugh and those beautiful eyes out of the world, even if it was to end his suffering.

There was only one other way to keep him safe.

And so for over 80 years he didn’t want anything.

Even if the demon hated him, even if they never saw each other again, Crowley was safe, and what else could possibly matter?

Until the day Crowley danced up the aisle of a church and back into his life, saving him, saving his _books,_ and giving him a smug grin and a lift home.

And Aziraphale realized that _wanting_ things could get very complicated indeed.

–-

One August night when the world hadn’t ended, Aziraphale stepped onto a bus back from Oxford, his mind racing with wishes and fears and regrets and things longed for but never named.

When Crowley sat down, the angel sat beside him, shaking hand grasping the edge of his seat, so close the knuckles were just shy of where Crowley’s fingers lay limply at his side.

“You must have wanted this,” Aziraphale suddenly spoke, breaking the silence of at least ten minutes. “For a very long time.”

“Hmm?” Crowley, exhausted, emotionally wrung out, had nearly fallen asleep where he sat. “Wanted what?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but found that he didn’t have any words. Not for the first time that night, the tears filled his eyes.

“Hey,” Crowley turned toward him, their knees just touching. “Don’t…don’t be afraid. We’re going to think of something.” How could his voice be so gentle? So calm?

“I…I don’t think I am afraid.”

“You’d be mad not to be. Isn’t this what you’ve been worried about all along? That they’d find out about…about us?”

“Oh, I’m terrified of that.” Aziraphale almost laughed, still trying to blink his eyes clear. “But… _us._ I don’t think I’m afraid of that anymore.”

Slowly, carefully, with utmost certainty, his hand drifted across the last few inches of space and clasped Crowley’s.

Behind black lenses, the demon’s unreadable eyes stared at their hands. “Are you… are you sure? Is this what you want?”

Aziraphale wiped his eyes with his free hand. “I don’t have the first idea what I want. I just know…” with a watery smile, he lifted their hands to rest together where their knees met. “Any time I’ve ever wanted anything, it’s been you there to bring it to me. Even when I didn’t really know what I wanted, you were always there.”

Crowley turned his hand, threading the fingers through Aziraphale’s, letting the warmth of it fill them both.

“And I think…” the angel continued. “I think that’s what I want. Whether we have another six thousand years or only tonight, I want you to be there. With me.”

“Ok.” It wasn’t even a whisper, just a movement of the mouth, a nod. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, brought it to rest against his cheek. “Ok.”

He couldn’t help shivering just a little from the thrill of it. Aziraphale had to almost fight to keep from doing something that would ruin the moment. “So, ah, so that’s why I said. You must have wanted this for a long time. I’ve…I’ll admit I’ve not thought about it nearly as much as I should, but I suppose I at least missed out on any _pining._ You, though…”

“Pining?” Suddenly the gentleness was gone from Crowley’s voice. “You think I’ve been _pining?”_ He threw back his head and laughed, hands falling again to rest in his lap.

Embarrassed, realizing he’d ruined the moment anyway, Aziraphale tried to pull his hand back, but Crowley only clasped it harder.

“Angel, all I’ve wanted for six thousand years is to see you happy. And you were, most of the time, so I was, too.” He finally let go of Aziraphale’s hand, but only so he could clasp both shoulders. “People who pine are _idiots_ who don’t appreciate what they already have. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but that is one I have never, ever made.”

Without thinking, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, pulling him close, resting his head against his demon’s heart, feeling those thin arms surround him, the long fingers bury themselves in his hair.

“Oh, my dear Crowley. I think it would take another six thousand years for me to learn to appreciate you.”

Aziraphale could feel the nod as Crowley’s chin brushed against him, felt the shaky breath pass his ear. “Well. We better make sure we’re around to enjoy that, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on my Tumblr!](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189621286292/pining)
> 
> I've said before I'm not very good at the kind of stories that summarize their whole 6,000 year relationship in a few thousand words. I'm here for the long haul. But this was my second attempt to write such a story (first was chapter 2, "Deadly") and I think it turned out decently! Also, I wanted to show Crowley being happy.
> 
> History notes:  
> \- Knossos: the largest city on Bronze Age Crete, center of what is known as the Minoan Civilization. The site was first occupied in the Neolithic (7000 BC or so) and remained so until perhaps 1100 BC; at its peak, 1700 BC, it held perhaps 100,000 people, with elaborate palaces and surprisingly complex architecture (including ventilation systems and running water). In later Greek society, Crete was remembered as the home of Minos of Knossos, who built a labyrinth for the Minotaur. Though there is evidence the lost civilization inspired or was connected to these legends, also keep in mind that Sir Arthur Evans excavated the city in the height of the "making things up" era of archaeology, and freely adopted names from mythology to describe what he found, as well as reconstructing the ruins based on "gut instinct." Any conclusions should be checked against later research, and excavations at the other palace sites on Crete.  
> \- Thermopolium: In the Greco-Roman world, a place that sold hot and ready-to-eat food, some of which could be taken away, some of which was eaten at tables. The cheapest tenement housing tended to lack a kitchen, so these were essential to the working population of cities. You can visit a mostly-intact ancient Thermopolium in Pompeii, which is pretty nice.  
> \- Triumph: A very elaborate procession and festival celebrating the return of a victorious general. By the first century, this had been absorbed into the imperial cult, meaning that only members of the Imperial family could be awarded a Triumph (generally the Emperor himself, accepting credit on behalf of his general). The triumphator wore, amongst other things, a crow of laurel leaves marking him as "king for a day." Under the emperors, generals could sometimes be awarded "triumphal ornaments," basically the right to the dress and privileges of a triumphator, but not the Triumph itself. This still required the approval of the senate, but awarding one on a whim fits with what we know about Caligula.  
> \- Laurel wreaths were a sign of victory in the Greco-Roman world. In Greek cities, this could indicate victory at Olympic games, a poetry or theater competition, etc. In Rome, this meant almost exclusively military victory. Also, a triumphal wreath should be gold, not silver.  
> \- More notes on Caligula in chapter 1. He was an interesting guy!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	11. Wassail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England, 2001: Crowley has a favorite holiday tradition, but he's not sure he's ready to share with Aziraphale...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12 - Caroling

_Die Hoffnung und Beständigkeit  
Gibt Trost und Kraft zu jeder Zeit.  
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum!  
Das soll dein Kleid mich lehren._

Aziraphale sighed, applauding with the rest of the audience. “Oh, I do love Christmas carols,” he said, smiling towards the demon standing beside him.

“You would,” Crowley grunted, tapping at the keys of his new-fangled _Blackberry._ He shot a glare through his dark glasses at the dozen singers gathered under a tree coated with twinkling lights. “Du denkst du bist schlau. Singe etwas das wir alle verstehen können.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale took a step away, adjusting his lapels, hoping no one thought they were here _together._ “I’ve told you before, if you don’t stop _heckling,_ I won’t bring you along.”

“Promise?” Crowley growled, bending back over the keyboard of his tiny computer.

Aziraphale tutted, turning back to the singers with an expectant smile.

_The angel Gabriel from heaven came.  
His wings as drifted snow, his eyes as flame:  
“All hail,” said he, “thou lowly maiden Mary.  
Most highly favored lady.”_

As soon as the song started, Aziraphale felt his smile fall, though he struggled to keep it in place lest Crowley see.

The demon didn’t even look up, just snorted, “There’s one I haven’t heard in a while. Let’s go. I don’t want to hear about that wanker.” He brushed past, elbowing his way through the crowd while Aziraphale hurried to catch up. “Hau jabetze kulturala da,” Crowley called over his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Aziraphale reminded him as they moved back towards the busier parts of the winter festival.

“Why? He’s your boss, not mine. In fact, I’m _supposed_ to not like him.”

“Still. I would prefer if you remained civil while we were in public.”

Crowley shrugged, brushing his long hair back out of his face, never looking up to acknowledge the carts of street food, the lights, the seasonal entertainments.

“What can possibly be so entertaining about that…that machine?” Aziraphale snapped.

“They put the internet into a phone. Genius!”

“I don’t know what that means,” the angel said, trying to sound as uninterested as possible.

“It means,” Crowley continued blithely, “that I can get into _all kinds_ of trouble from anywhere in the city.” He finally glanced up, long enough to wiggle his eyebrows. “I am going to take spam to a whole new level.”

“Please do not explain that.”

“Well, I need to do _something_ to keep myself entertained!”

“There’s plenty to keep you entertained.”

“What, this?” Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Consumerism. Gluttony. Really bad music. Nothing _real_ about any of it.”

Aziraphale tried not to look hurt. “Well, isn’t there anything about the season you like?”

The fingers paused in their dance across the keyboard. “I like wassailing, I suppose.”

“Of course you do.” Back in the Middle Ages, _wassailing_ had always ended in gangs of drunken young men demanding food and drink at houses in the villages, causing all kinds of chaos and damage if they didn’t get it. He had been glad when the tradition had died out, and that it had revived as the much more stately and dignified _caroling_ in the Victorian era.

“Now what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Only that wassailing is exactly the sort of thing I would expect a demon to enjoy.”

“You don’t need to sound so disapproving.” The fingers typed more furiously than ever.

“I only meant…there are some holiday traditions we’re better off without.” No, that sounded worse. Aziraphale immediately wished he could call the words back.

Crowley finally shoved the blackberry into his pocket. “If that’s how you feel, I think I’m better off without _this_ tradition.” He shot a scowl through his curtain of red hair. “Enjoy your festival.”

“Crowley…” but the demon had already stormed away.

–-

Aziraphale didn’t hear from him all though December, which really wasn’t a surprise; the demon didn’t bother to come visit on New Year’s, which was unusual, but not alarming.

As the month of January began to pass, though, he grew nervous. The last time they’d parted angrily, they’d wound up not speaking for over eighty years. This disagreement surely hadn’t been so bad. It had been such a minor thing. Crowley couldn’t still be upset _six weeks later_ …and yet still, no word.

Finally, on the 17th of January, Aziraphale called Crowley’s flat.

“…you know what to do, do it with style. <beep>”

“Crowley. Crowley! I know you’re there, don’t ignore me. Crowley!”

A long pause, then…

“What is it, Angel?”

“There you are! I was beginning to think – oh never mind.” Aziraphale had promised himself to be _calm_ and _reasonable._ “Where have you been?”

“Preparing to indulge in holiday traditions we’re better off without.”

“Really! Crowley, there’s no need for you to be…stand-offish.”

“I’m not being stand-offish. I’m in a great mood. Very sociable.”

“Are you.”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t approve, would you?” A heavy sigh. “Look, Angel, I don’t want to argue. I have people to meet. We can talk later.”

“People?” But the line was dead. Crowley had _hung up on him._

Now Aziraphale was furious. He very nearly miracled himself to Mayfair to give Crowely a piece of his mind. Then again, there was the _slight_ possibility that something demonic was afoot, in which case the sudden arrival of an angel would cause rather a large disaster.

If that was the case, though, _why wouldn’t Crowley have said something?_ No, he hadn’t even tried to speak in clever code. This wasn’t business, this was him giving Aziraphale the brush-off.

After pacing furiously across the book shop for five minutes, the angel reached his decision.

He opened up a map of London and concentrated on a bit of magic he’d lain down decades ago, in case Crowley ever needed to be rescued from his own foolish risks. After a moment, he was able to sense the exact location of the Bentley – nothing was visible, the trick was all in his mind, but using the map he could track it as it traveled through the city.

Except that, almost immediately, it turned onto a major road and drove southwest, crossing out of London entirely. Aziraphale fumbled until he found a larger map of southern England. This would be cruder, but with some concentration he could still detect the car racing through Surrey, Hampshire, Wiltshire, and Somerset.

When the Bentley finally came to a stop, it appeared to be in the middle of nowhere.

Where was that atlas? Aziraphale flipped through map after map. Not Bath. Not Taunton. Not Wells or Glastonbury. He finally settled on a village named Chilton Stoke, not even four hundred people. What in Heaven’s name was Crowley doing there?

The Bentley didn’t move for half an hour. Or for an hour.

After more than ninety minutes, Aziraphale decided he should investigate.

–-

Teleporting to a strange location took ten minutes of preparation, even with the Bentley as a focus. Aziraphale arrived as subtly as possible, but as far as he could sense, there was nothing demonic going on at all.

The Bentley sat outside the village post office. There didn’t seem to be anyone about, but he could feel Crowley somewhere out among the farms, and started in that direction.

The air was chilly, but clear and crisp, the sky just starting to darken towards sunset. There were plenty of tracks across the thin layer of snow that coated the fields, grinding the pure white into a brown and grey slush. Aziraphale turned to follow that up the hill and into the orchards.

A shift in the wind brought the sound of shouting, laced with laughter. He crept closer, moving from one tree to the next.

The crowd seemed to include every man, woman and child from the village, gathered around the largest, oldest tree in the orchard. They were calling, jeering – a few banging pots and pans or other noisemakers. Children threw wads of snow up among the branches and there, moving from one limb to another, taunting them, catching the snowballs and throwing them back down, was _Crowley._

Crowley, glasses off, golden eyes shining for all to see, garland of winter greens hanging around his neck.

“Ha! Is that the best you can do? I’m not even trying!” Another snowball sailed past his head, and he slid across the fork of the tree as easily as if he were on the ground. “I’m going to have this whole field blighted by morning, and then where are you going to be?”

The crowd booed this, but much in the way one boos the villain of a pantomime. Crowley waved his arms, encouraging it.

Then, the crowd shifted to cheers as a young lady with a wreath laid across her hair began to climb the tree. Crowley gave one of his overdramatic cries and backed further away up one of the branches.

“Evil spirit! You are not welcome in this village!”

Crowley cowered with a look of exaggerated shock. “Get him, Liz!” called one of the children in the crowd.

“And what, exactly, do you plan to do about it?” Crowley hooked his hands across a branch and dangled bonelessly, grinning at the young lady.

“I call upon the soul of this tree to reject you and your curse! I – oh,” she leaned down and someone handed up a large bowl, which she gripped in both hands. “I shall waken this tree, and all the trees in the orchard, and your evil will not stand!”

She pulled a piece of bread soaked in something brown and dripping and pressed it to a sharp twig so that it dangled. The people gathered below cheered again and began to sing.

_Huzza, Huzza, in our good town  
The bread shall be white, and the liquor be brown  
So here my old fellow I drink to thee  
And the very health of each other tree.  
Well may ye blow, well may ye bear  
Blossom and fruit both apple and pear.  
So that every bough and every twig  
May bend with a burden both fair and big  
May ye bear us and yield us fruit such a stors  
That the bags and chambers and house run o’er._

All the while, the young lady moved across the tree, spearing more bits of bread on twigs. Crowley darted around, making a show of alternately hiding from and trying to scare her. But every time she nearly lost her footing on the slippery bark, his hand would reach out and steady her, just for a moment.

When the song ended, she announced, “The blessing has been made!” and climbed quickly down to the ground, where several young men were pouring more liquid at the base of the tree.

“Attack!” someone shouted.

Suddenly the air was filled with sound – everyone screamed, or banged their noisemakers, and the children threw a concentrated volley of snow at Crowley. When one struck his chest, he flung his arms out dramatically and fell from the tree.

Everyone cheered, several small children crowding close around the fallen demon.

“Alright, ALRIGHT! You got me!” The crowd parted, and Aziraphale could see Crowley sitting up, grinning like mad, snow thick in his hair. A five-year-old child appeared to be trying to put him in a chokehold, but was unable to move much in thick jacket and scarf. “Fair cop. This orchard is officially uncursed. Congratulations.”

He jumped to his feet and pointed at the large tree.

_Apple-tree, apple-tree  
Bear good fruit,  
Or down with your top  
And up with your root!_

There was another round of applause, and Crowley made a show of bending over and taking a deep breath. “Right. Who’s next?”

“You know perfectly well,” snapped an older man – at least seventy.

“Barnabas? Aren’t you dead yet?”

The old man laughed. “That’s no way to talk to your elders! I’ll outlive you.”

“That’s what your grandfather used to say, too. Fine then, you try and catch me, or you’ll have the biggest worms in your apples in all Somerset.” And Crowley turned and ran – straight towards Aziraphale.

He tried to get out of the way, but there was no place to hide. And Crowley spotted him almost immediately, stumbling to a halt under the tree.

“Angel. What are you doing here?” The smile, the humor, the glint in his eyes – all gone now. He scowled.

“What am I…what are _you_ doing?”

Crowley shrugged, looking down at his foot as he dragged his heel through the snow. “Wassailing.”

“That…” Aziraphale waved his arms, trying to indicate the drama, the apple trees, the strange songs that had nothing to do with the winter season. “That is not wassailing!”

“What? Course it is. I’ve been doing it for over five hundred years.”

 _“Five hundred years?”_ It was too much to take. “You’ve been doing this for five _centuries?_ Why did you never say anything?”

Crowley shrugged. “Wasn’t sure you’d approve. And you didn’t.”

For a moment, the angel’s mouth just hung open. “My dear fellow, I assure you, this is _not_ what I pictured when you said you enjoyed _wassailing.”_

“Oh.” He looked up, cocking his head, expression carefully blank.

“Hey! You gotta run!” came a shout from one of the children. “We can’t chase you if you don’t run!”

“Listen, I kind of have a whole…thing here. Can we talk later?”

“I suppose we must.” Aziraphale’s mind was in a whirl.

“Great. Uh. Back in the village, wait by the church. I’ll see you after.” Without waiting for a reply, he spun and ran off through the trees.

The crowd followed behind, singing another song.

_Here we come a wassailing  
Among the leaves so green,  
Here we come a wandering  
So fair to be seen.  
Love and joy come to you,  
And to you your wassail too,  
And God bless you and send you a happy New Year…_

-–

“It started, oh, 1467 or so,” Crowley began, slumping into a seat in the little reception hall next to the church. The whole village had gathered inside, talking, laughing, sharing mugs of mulled spiced cider served from a large bowl by the door. This, Aziraphale had been told, was the wassail. He’d remembered something like it from centuries ago, but this recipe was entirely different.

It had been so strange to see the crowd returning from the orchards, singing, Crowley swaggering in the middle as if he belonged. Every once in a while, someone would come by and speak to the demon, either congratulating him or making some vague threat about _next year._ He took it all in stride, even when a few slapped him on the shoulders.

It was incredible. Aziraphale had never seen him so _relaxed._ Smiling, meeting people’s eyes, letting them touch him without flinching away.

“What happened in 1467?”

Crowley took a swig of his drink. “I was sent out here to blight the farms, as you might expect. Stupid assignment. No Temptation involved. What do they even think I am?”

“Absolute waste of your talents.”

“Yes! See? Exactly. But I snuck out there and did my job. Or tried to.” He chuckled, looking around the room with something approaching fondness. “Bunch of idiot humans caught me at it, tried this ancient ritual to raise the trees against me.”

“And it worked?”

“No! Throwing bread at trees and shouting? Of course it didn’t work!” Crowley took another drink, but he couldn’t hide the way his face lit up at the memory. “But they spent the whole night chasing me around the orchards and I couldn’t do my work. So I agreed to leave them in peace.”

Aziraphale leaned against his hand, studying Crowley’s face. He knew that expression. It was the same one that lit up his own face whenever he thought of learning the gavotte with his friends at the club, a hundred years ago. “You had fun. You enjoyed it.”

“Well. I.” Crowley suddenly fumbled for his glasses, but paused with them halfway to his eyes. “I suppose…yes, I did.” He folded them back up, placed them on the table. “They weren’t afraid of me. Do you know how often I meet humans who aren’t afraid of me?”

“So you came back. Every year.”

Crowley sighed, turning to take in the people surrounding him. “Eighteen generations. I know we’re not supposed to get attached. And it’s been hard sometimes. But…one day a year…I don’t know. I need another drink.” He stood up and walked away before Aziraphale could stop him.

As he waited for Crowley to return, Aziraphale realized people were staring at him. No, _glaring._ He tried for a friendly smile, but that only made the scowls worse.

Suddenly, the young lady with the wreath in her hair sat beside him. “Are you here to cause trouble?” she demanded without preamble.

“I – no, I’ve never intentionally caused trouble in my life.” She seemed to believe him about as much as Crowley would have. “Let me see, was your name Liz?”

“I’m the wassail queen,” she said, as if that gave her authority over all supernatural entities. “I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s nervous. He’s unhappy. _You_ make him unhappy.”

Aziraphale gasped, his heart clenching in his chest. “No, I…I don’t think I do.”

“Then why is he like this?” She glanced over at where Crowley stood in the corner, holding his mug of wassail, not looking at anyone. It was very much how he usually looked in crowds.

When Aziraphale didn’t respond, she looked him up and down. “You’re like him, but not. Did you threaten him? Are you going to try and take him away?”

“Goodness, no! I would never!” He tried to think how much it would be safe to tell these people, who seemed so familiar with Crowley. “I…I am in this world as a force for _good,_ and –”

She waved her hand. “I know. That’s why I’m talking to you. We all know exactly what he is. But he’s _our_ evil spirit. So you leave him alone or you’ll find out exactly what we’re capable of.”

Aziraphale raised his hands in alarm. “I think you have entirely the wrong idea.” He lowered his arms, rubbing his palms together. “Crowley and I…we’ve known each other a long time. A very long time. I would not…That is…I don’t wish any harm on him, either. I suppose he’s my evil spirit, too. I just never knew about any of this.” He looked again at Crowley, and found he couldn’t look away.

Liz watched for a moment, eyes darting between the angel and the demon. Suddenly she grinned. “I think I did have the wrong idea. My mistake. I was pretty nervous when I brought my girlfriend home to meet the family, too.”

“I – what?” Aziraphale turned to her in alarm. “I have no idea what you…we’re not…”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, you do and you are. For crying out loud, it’s the twenty-first century. No one cares about that anymore.” She stood up. “Tell him if he wants to bring you next year, we’ll find a role for you. I hope you’re good at falling out of trees.”

After a great many steadying breaths, Aziraphale picked up his mug and walked over to join Crowley.

“For five centuries, you never said anything. Until this year. You wanted me to know. You were trying to find a way to tell me and I…overreacted.”

Crowley shrugged. “I guess I knew what you thought I meant. But… I didn’t want you to disapprove of this. I shouldn’t care but –”

“My dear, of course you should care. This village is important to you. You didn’t want me to belittle it.”

“I know I always insult things you like.” His eyes were locked onto his mug.

“You do.” Aziraphale tried to meet his gaze. “But I know you don’t mean it… _all_ of the time. And it’s so rare for you to find something _meaningful.”_ He stepped a little closer. “I’m glad you found this place. I only wish you’d brought me here before. I would very much like to meet them.”

“You…you like them?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale glanced around the room. “I don’t know what it is, but this place, these people, suit you very well.”

The smile that had been missing from Crowley’s face started to return.

Aziraphale raised his mug. “Waes hael.”

Crowley raised his in return. “Drinc hael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on my Tumblr!](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189639900147/wassail)
> 
> I initially set out just to give Crowley a fun holiday tradition, and wound up giving him a home and a family (of sorts) long before the Apocalypse. I've become rather fond of it! This is quite possibly the most divergent of the AUs contained in this fic. After all, it creates some interesting possibilities for what Crowley and Aziraphale might do, presented with a young Antichrist in just a few years...
> 
> Notes:  
> \- The German is the final verse of O Tannenbaum: That faith and hope shall ever bloom/To bring us light in winter’s gloom./O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,/You bear a joyful message (Wikipedia translation, but the Google Translate one was pretty funny, too.)  
> \- Crowley's first bit of heckling (German): “You think you’re clever. Sing something we can all understand.” (Google Translate)  
> \- Second bit of heckling (Basque): “This is cultural appropriation” (fixed, with help from Fille_au_loup). "Gabriel's Message" is an originally Basque carol, chosen because..."thou lowly maiden" really sounded like something Gabriel might say.  
> \- Chilton Stoke is not a real village, but made by cobbling together place names in Somerset, England, in the hopes of sounding vaguely authentic.  
> \- The last bit of dialogue translates to “Be in health” (Middle English) and “Drink and be healthy” (Anglo-Saxon). I’ve committed a rather egregious violation of linguistics here just to avoid typing a thorn. Mea culpa. These phrases are actually a greeting and response, not a toast – Wassail didn’t become a Yuletide toast until much, much later. Really my crimes just continue to accumulate.  
> \- Wassail: I tried to include all the meanings of this term. Who knew it was so versatile?  
> \--A rowdier version of caroling from the Middle Ages, in which gangs of young men sang songs and loudly demanded their figgy pudding or threatened a bit of chaos.  
> \--An apple orchard ritual performed shortly after New Years, blessing the trees to ensure a good harvest. There are a few variants, but this is based on the one from southwestern England.  
> \--An alcoholic drink. Aziraphale would probably be familiar with the oldest form (hot mead with crab apples dropped in, also called 'Lambswool'); other recipes include spiced mulled cider with slices of bread, or mulled ale mixed with brandy and slices of apple. Traditionally served out of a communal wassail bowl.  
> \--A toast (Wassail!) associated with the Christmas season  
> \--An Anglo-Saxon greeting  
> \- I've never actually seen an Orchard (or Apple) Wassail, but had some fun researching them. Since this one is meant to be a game between Crowley and the village, I played pretty fast and loose with the traditions, mixing things from different eras and shires (including songs from both Somerset and Dorset).


	12. Familiar Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London, 2018: The last Christmas before the scheduled Apocalypse, Aziraphale attempts to make peace with Crowley and come to terms with a few important questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14 - Egg Nog

Nanny Ashtoreth would never admit how _good_ it felt to walk into that bookshop after months away.

Every Christmas, the Dowlings gave all their staff two weeks off while they traveled, visiting various heads of state. It was a great relief, not least because demons preferred to avoid elaborate Christmas celebrations.

Aziraphale’s bookshop was much as it always had been – crowded with dusty books on every surface, embarrassingly tacky angels tucked into every corner, gramophone playing an ancient, warped disc because _someone_ refused to even upgrade to _vinyl_. The only concessions to the season were a few sprigs of holly and a string of lights in the window, drawing attention to the sign: CLOSED TODAY – TRY AGAIN TOMORROW!

The sign had sat unchanged for just about ten years.

Stepping through the door, the hat came off, the hair shook loose, and just for a little while Nanny Ashtoreth was Crowley again.

“Ah, my dear fellow, I’m so glad you could make it.” Aziraphale had all the boisterous cheer of the host of a banquet – though as always, it was only the two of them.

“Nh.” Crowley went straight to the sofa, flinging himself down, kicking his feet up onto the armrest. “Next time I have the _brilliant_ idea to create a persona who only wears heels, remind me of this moment.” He settled down deeper into the well-worn cushions, feeling the ache in his back, legs and feet lessen just a bit. _So good._

“Crowley, I’ve told you before, I don’t like your shoes on my furniture.”

“And I’ve told you, Angel, I don’t care.” He pulled off his glasses – small lenses, emphasizing the sharpness of his face; he’d need a new pair soon, and good riddance – then looked Aziraphale up and down. Another thing he’d never admit to missing: that tartan bowtie. “No more Brother Francis, then?”

The angel straightened his waistcoat and smoothed his lapels. “I arranged to have myself let go after the gardens were settled for the winter. I have a few ideas for next year, but I’ll need more time as myself to…prepare.”

“I’m staying on through the end of the school year,” Crowley said, leaning back to study the ceiling. “That only gives me about two months but…not as much to prepare, I suppose.”

Neither of them needed to say what they were preparing for. They’d hardly mentioned _it_ for ten years, though they each thought of little else.

“Let me get you something to drink. Eggnog?”

“I’d rather have brandy.”

A moment later, Aziraphale pressed the glass into his hand. Crowley glared at the white liquid. “This isn’t what I asked for.”

“There’s more than enough brandy in there. I just thought I’d be a little festive.”

“Festive.” Must be all that time around the humans, going to his head. “That’s the last thing we need right now.” Crowley raised the glass to his lips just as Aziraphale circled the sofa and suddenly grabbed at his foot. “Oi!” Crowley jerked his leg away.

“Too much brandy?” Aziraphale asked with the sort of innocent expression that had never fooled anyone.

Crowley glared at Aziraphale, his foot, and his glass. “Too much nutmeg, actually. And leave me alone. My feet are killing me, and I’m keeping them up until they stop.”

The angel sighed. “I _was_ going to help you remove your boots. So you could sit however you like without ruining the furniture.”

“Ah.” Slowly, Crowley lowered his leg back to the arm of the sofa. “Well, I suppose that…that makes sense.”

Not quite meeting his eyes, Aziraphale set to work loosening the first high-heeled boot. “These shoes are atrocious. I’m sure you weren’t wearing them ten years ago.” He finally worked it free, and Crowley gave a grunt of pleasure, which he tried to hide with another sip of eggnog. Aziraphale held up the boot by its four-inch heel. “Was this entirely necessary?”

“It felt more in-character.” Crowley shrugged. “Be careful with that, it needs to last until June.”

“I think you just like playing up for the humans.” Aziraphale got to work on the second boot.

“Oh, _I’m_ the one playing up? And what was the purpose of that pirate accent?” Crowley smiled slightly, taking another sip of eggnog. It would probably be quicker to sit up and remove the blasted boot himself, but the angel seemed determined to try.

“It’s a rural accent! Brother Francis was a simple farmer from a rural community and needed a voice to match.”

“Was he? A caricature of a farmer, you mean, with a Mummerset accent.” Crowley chuckled, tilting up his glass. “Next time we do this, remind me to give you a lesson in deep characterization.”

The hands on his boot fell still, and Crowley lowered the glass. Neither of them wanted to say it. That this might be the _last_ time.

“Here, let me get that,” Crowley grumbled, sitting up.

“No, you stay put.” Aziraphale grabbed the boot with both hands, pulling it free, probably casting a small miracle to get it off so easily, and tossed it aside. “There. Now you can put your feet wherever you want.”

Two feet sat crossed on the arm rest of the sofa. To a human, they may have appeared to be covered in some sort of black fishnet stockings, but supernatural eyes could see that the pattern was part of the flesh, wrapping around the toes and fading towards a regular skin tone somewhere above the knee. Every demon had to have some sign of what he really was.

Without warning, Aziraphale lifted his legs and slid under them, lowering the feet to instead rest on his lap.

Crowely went very, very still. “What. Uh. What are you doing?”

“Well, I thought…” Aziraphale’s face was carefully blank. Too blank. “Since they’re so sore, you might like a foot rub. It’s, you know, supposed to help.”

He put the glass of eggnog on the table by his head. “Angel. What’s going on?”

“Is it so strange I want to do something to make you comfortable?”

“Yes. It is.” Crowley shifted a little, sitting higher, which actually moved his feet to the middle of Aziraphale’s lap. But he wanted to look the angel in the eye. “We don’t…do that sort of thing. We never have.”

Aziraphale turned to face him, smiling – a soft, sad, uncertain smile, yet another thing Crowley would never admit to missing during the Brother Francis years. “I suppose we don’t. But I wanted to, well, give you something.”

“Give me something.” The eggnog soured in his stomach. “Angel. We’ve never given each other _Christmas gifts._ Or Solstice, or whatever came before that. Not ever.”

“Well.” Fingers hovered above Crowley’s scaled feet, not touching but not pulling away. “Perhaps now is as good a time as any to start.”

Crowley swallowed, trying to think of an objection. But those eyes, that smile – they _did_ something to him. Always had. Finally, he slumped back down on the sofa. “Do what you want, then.”

The fingers trembled as they touched him, just slightly, and he fought not to pull away. Then a thumb found the point where the strain from wearing heels crossed the bottom of his foot and _pressed_ and – oh, that felt _good._

“It would seem you do like it after all.”

Crowley pushed a hand against his jaw, determined not to make _that_ sound ever again. “’M just tired is all.” With growing confidence, the thumbs and the heels of Aziraphale’s hands worked their way up and down one foot, then the other, and back to the first.

It felt…not _pleasurable,_ not _intimate,_ whatever humans might say.

It was a relief, that’s what it was. The opposite of the pain that had been building up for months and months since he’d decided to put on those frankly magnificent torture devices.

And it was comfortable, like finding himself back on this sofa, so perfectly molded to his body.

Familiar, like a bottle of his favorite wine, discovered in a back room when he thought he’d drunk it all and it was gone forever.

It felt…right. Like this was something they should have been doing all along.

And, he supposed, if you got down to it…it was intimate. How else would you describe a relationship that spanned six thousand years? Intimate in ways humans could never imagine.

It occurred to Crowley that he was no longer describing the sensation of the foot rub, and he wasn’t doing a good job of stopping the tiny sighs of relief that kept finding their way out of his mouth.

There was a smile on Aziraphale’s face, that smug little bastard grin that always made Crowley feel lightheaded. “Let me guess. After this, you want me to do your feet.” He wasn’t even planning to argue.

Blue eyes shot at him, just for a second, then focused back on his toes. “Oh, no. Quite unnecessary. Unlike you, I’ve been wearing practical footwear.”

He didn’t like that light joking tone. “You must want something.”

“Well, if you insist, I…would like to talk.”

Crowley could have pulled his feet back, walked away. This wouldn’t end well, he could already sense it. “Talk about what?”

“Oh. You know.” Aziraphale swallowed, the motions of his thumbs slowing against Crowley’s soles. “How do you suppose…things are? With Warlock?”

“I’ve told you. He’s normal. Almost too normal. _You_ said that meant it was working.”

“Most certainly.” One thumb moved in an idle circle. “I just… We are prepared for… your final report, aren’t we?”

“Aziraphale. What are you getting at?”

The hands fell still. “Crowley. If we succeed, if Warlock refuses his role…what do you plan to tell your side?”

“I tell them my clever adversary outwitted me again. The angel Aziraphale turned the Antichrist to the side of good, nothing I could do against his brilliant scheming.”

“And they’ll just accept that.” Aziraphale wrapped his fingers around Crowley’s foot, not massaging now, just holding it. “They’ll just let you walk away?”

“That isn’t your concern, Angel.” Aziraphale shook his head, holding a little tighter. “It isn’t. The world will be safe, you’ll get all sorts of accolades in Heaven, and I…” He tried to keep his tone casual. “I’ll think of something. I always do.”

The angel shook his head again. “And if…if we fail? If Warlock does come into his powers?”

“No, Angel –”

“I’ll fight you, you know. If they order me to.” He turned to face Crowley, eyes hard and determined. But they were betrayed by the gentleness of his hands, and the way his lip trembled. “They probably will. So if the war comes, I’ll fight you.”

Crowley finally sat up, pulling his feet away. “I won’t.”

“They won’t give me a choice.” Already his expression was crumbling. “I can’t disobey an order. We’ve been adversaries so long and – And they’ll want me to hunt you down and – I – I will…”

“I _won’t,”_ Crowley repeated, as gently as he could.

Aziraphale grabbed his shoulders, but there was no strength in his grip. “I c – I can’t choose – If it’s you or – or my side – please, Crowley, don’t make me choose.” His breath was ragged now, all but sobbing.

“I won’t.” Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel, pulling him close. “I won’t.”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale sobbed, his voice tiny with fear. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t. I won’t.” Over and over, as many times as he needed to hear it. “I won’t.”

And as Aziraphale cried into his shoulder, Crowley swore to find some way to keep that promise. To hold onto his angel and the life they’d built. No matter what the future brought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I swear, it's gonna be ok, we all watched the show, right??
> 
> Originally posted to [my Tumblr! ](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189713014952/familiar-things)
> 
> Note: This is the only story I've written with Crowley's scaled feet, which is a pity, because I like them. It's based on the folklore tradition that the devil/demons can transform any aspect except the feet, and the fact that Crowley's snakeskin boots in the book were maybe not boots at all.


	13. Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London 1967: Six months after "You go too fast for me, Crowley" one demon tries to reach out and make amends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13 - Wrapping Paper

“Angel,” Crowley said to the empty room, then paused for a long moment.

“Ugh, no, that’s – try again, you idiot.” He took a deep breath and paced the length of his study, trying to organize the thoughts in his brain. “Hey. Hi, Aziraphale. What’s new – oh, don’t _even.”_

He miracled a mirror onto the wall, studying his face, shaggy hair, large glasses. Glasses off? No glasses on.

He switched a few more times before finally leaving them on.

“Aziraphale. Happy Christmas. No, I’ve never said _Happy Christmas_ in my life. What’s wrong with me?”

It shouldn’t be this hard. He’d known the angel for almost six _thousand_ years. Yes, they hadn’t been speaking much lately, but that wasn’t new. They used to go centuries without seeing each other. He’d never worried about how to approach Aziraphale back then, just sauntered over and shouted “Hello!”

But this time…

First, there’d been the fight. It still twisted his gut to think of the things they’d said. Of how many nights he’d sat up angry in this flat, angry at Aziraphale, angry at the universe so stacked against them, angry at himself. What had he been thinking, asking Aziraphale for holy water, just out of the blue like that? How was the angel supposed to react?

Then there’d been the War, and the church, and the bomb. Crowley jumping in to rescue the foolish angel as he always did, burning his feet in the process. He’d tried not to notice the way Aziraphale looked at him afterwards, tried not to hope. He’d waited for Aziraphale to contact him after that. 

Waited for over twenty years.

And then – Aziraphale in his Bentley, handing over that thermos. A look. A tearful almost-smile. _You go too fast for me, Crowley._

It had been six months. They hadn’t spoken. Crowley replayed the conversation in his mind every day.

He walked back to the table, placing his hands on the large square box, wrapped in silver-white paper covered in blue shapes. Stockings, candles, sprigs of holly, even little angels. All the Christmas cheer you could ask for.

“Hello, Aziraphale. I know we don’t…we aren’t… Well, I figured since you got me something, I should – For Satan’s sake, DO NOT SAY THAT!” He stormed away, circling the table, ready to pull out his hair in frustration.

A hundred and five years. They’d spoken, what, twice since the argument?

Everything they’d built across all the centuries destroyed. All the trust, all the evenings at the theater, all the shared jokes, the warm smiles, the way Aziraphale looked at him when the angel thought he couldn’t see. All gone, because Crowley had asked for something, something Aziraphale hadn’t been ready to give.

And then…Aziraphale _gave it to him anyway._

Crowley leaned against the wall, staring at the blue-and-white box. It was an eyesore, that’s what it was. Hideous. Covered in all the things he, as a demon, wanted exactly nothing to do with. Shouldn’t even have it in his flat.

Could he use that? “Hello, Aziraphale, I bought this but it’s absolutely horrendous and I need to get it as far from me as possible. Why did I buy a present? It’s – I – nnnrrrrrrr.”

He sank down to the floor, head still resting against the wall. At least he couldn’t see the gift, sitting accusingly on the table, from down here.

What he could see was that sketch of the Mona Lisa. And behind it, the safe. And in the safe…

Aziraphale thought it was a suicide pill. What must he be thinking _every day_ since handing it over? Did he think Crowley had used it on himself? He _must_ have worked out by now that Crowley would never…

He felt sick just thinking about it.

All Crowley wanted was to make amends. To make this right. To get back to where they’d been before he steered them both off a cliff. But he couldn’t explain, he couldn’t even talk about it, not without opening the wounds, making it worse.

This had seemed like such a clever solution. A Christmas present. Perfect opportunity. But he couldn’t figure out what the Heaven he was supposed to say.

“I’m a coward,” he muttered from where he sat, slumped in defeat. “I’m a coward and an idiot, and I just… I want you to talk to me again. I want my friend back. Please.”

Crowley forced himself to stand up, pick up the box, and walk out the door.

–-

He hadn’t thought of the words by the time he reached the book shop. The Bentley had never driven so slowly, and it _still_ wasn’t enough time. But the lights were off, the shop was empty. Crowley sat in the car, drumming his hands on the wheel. Maybe he could take another trip around the city, give himself time to think –

“Crowley? What is that you?”

“Who _else_ is it going to be, Angel?” he snapped before he could stop himself. Well, that’s one way to break the ice.

Aziraphale stood on the pavement next to the car, hand wrapped around a steaming cup, the other holding a box from the bakery. They hadn’t changed their packaging in a hundred and five years. Crowley opened the door and stepped out to meet him.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” he muttered.

“Are you…” he took a step closer, eyes shadowed. “Are you…alright? Did something happen?”

“Did – no, I’m fine. Obviously. I’m here, aren’t I?” Crowley sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t mean that. I just – you don’t have to worry about me, alright?”

“I always worry about you.” His voice was so soft. Then he closed his eyes, stood a little straighter, and found his usual pompous tone. “I mean, it is my job to know what you’re about. You’ve caused me no end of concern by being so quiet for so long.”

“Yeah. Well. I.” Crowley spun around, reaching into the car, retrieving the ugly box. “Look. I got you something. Just shut up and open it.”

Aziraphale looked at the box, then at his own hands, already occupied, and raised his eyebrows.

“Fine, here, I’ll get the door.” Crowley snapped his fingers, front doors swinging wide. “Where do you want it? You’ve got enough tables.”

“Put it on the one by the sofa.”

That was well back in the shop. Crowley swallowed, and considered tossing the box onto the nearest table and just running.

No, he had to see this through.

He walked to the back corner where the two of them had sat so many times, sharing drinks and plans and secrets, even if they hadn’t thought of it that way. Sharing looks over glasses that they would never put into words.

He put down the box, quickly but carefully, as if it might explode, and turned to leave.

Aziraphale was blocking his escape. “Well, since you’re here. Let me offer you a drink. Tea? Wine? What are you in the mood for?” His tone was as stiff as his back.

“’M fine,” Crowley mumbled, leaning against the nearest pillar, arms crossed.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, then pushed past, settling onto the sofa. It seemed odd. That was where Crowley sat but, bless it, this was _his_ shop, he could sit wherever he wanted.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Aziraphale carefully removed the wrapping paper, as if he might re-use that blue-and-white monstrosity on another gift. Then he looked at the box inside, not saying anything, not reacting at all.

“It’s a telephone,” Crowley finally said, when he couldn’t take it anymore.

“I know what it is.” Then, after a pause, “I don’t use them.”

“I got one for myself, too.”

“Yes, Crowley, I know you like to have the latest gadgets. I prefer not to give strangers another way to intrude on my time –”

“Aziraphale.” He stepped closer. “I – I wrote my number on the box. Right there.” He pointed to the row of digits. “I’ll show you how to dial it.” He pushed his hands into his pockets again, staring at the box, not at the angel. “I’m not – I won’t push you. Take all the time you need. But, when you’re ready, when you want to talk…” He cleared his throat. “I just…I don’t want it to be…”

“Crowley.” He finally looked over to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. The angel sighed and moved over on the couch to make room.

Crowley settled next to him, and it was like the universe had shifted, everything back where it was supposed to be, everything so close to being _right_ again. He clenched his hands into fists on his knees, trying to keep the tears from his eyes.

“I’m really not sure this is something I can use.” Aziraphale picked up the box, looking at it from different angles. “I don’t like the idea of just anyone being able to call, you know. And I much prefer to _see_ the people I’m talking to. I think most do. Can’t imagine these new devices will catch on.”

Crowley shrugged, not trusting himself to speak.

“But I suppose…it is quite a clever device. It might have potential, as a way of making plans. Go for dinner. Take a walk in the park. That sort of thing. What do you think?”

Crowley nodded, but felt something more was required of him. “Yeah, uh, yeah. You could do that, I suppose.”

“And, I suppose,” the edge was back in his voice, “if you were worried about someone, you could just – just sort of call them up and make sure they hadn’t done something foolish. Instead of waiting for them to deign to visit you in person.”

“You can call me – you can call whoever you want, any time. That’s what it’s for.”

“Of course, it also gives people another way to _avoid_ you, doesn’t it? Refuse to take your calls, pretend they aren’t in. Probably some way to silence it when you want to sleep for a decade or two. Or just unplug it when you’ve had enough.”

Shaking his head, Crowley tried to keep his voice calm. “I won’t. I promise. You call that number, and you’ll get an answer.”

He clenched his teeth, a hundred things we wanted to say, almost overwhelming him in their demand to be spoken. _Not too fast. Give him time._

“And…” Softer tone now. “If someone did want to contact me, I suppose I’d have to answer. In case it was an emergency.”

Crowley didn’t have the first idea how to respond to that. He rubbed his palms against his knees, staring straight ahead.

“I suppose,” Azirapahle finally concluded, placing the box back onto the table before them, “this isn’t such a bad little machine after all. I think I’d like to try it out rather soon. You wouldn’t mind, would you? If I called you, just for a test, in the next day or so?”

Crowley shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“I…I missed you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, voice loud in the silence.

Crowley’s hand drifted across the space between them, and suddenly encountered Aziraphale’s, moving towards him on its own quest. Their knuckles brushed, they both froze, terrified of what came next.

Heart pounding, Crowley snatched Aziraphale’s fingers, soft and neatly manicured, warm, trembling, and squeezed, just for a second. “I missed you, too.”

Then he dropped them, pulling away, standing up as if the sofa might come to life and attack him. He glanced over to see that Azirapahle had stood as well, straightening his waistcoat and lapels.

“Well,” said the angel, glancing over. “First thing is to get this wretched device working. Do you actually know how to set it up?”

“Ah, yeah, I can do that.” Crowley’s hands fumbled over the box, finding the seam where it opened. “Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

“Good.” Aziraphale bustled off. “Now, the bakery down the street has changed the recipe on their hot buns, and I’m not sure it’s an improvement. I’m going to need a second opinion on this. Oh, and I picked up a bottle of Eiswein in Germany, it’s become a bit of a fad and I want to know what you think. And I should tell you about this customer I had…”

Crowley smiled, and got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Originally posted [on my Tumblr. ](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189729825782/communication)
> 
> Once again, not really any history notes. Did you know the telephone was invented in 1876? So Aziraphale is pretty far behind the times.
> 
> Oh, Eiswein (Ice Wine) is wine produced from grapes that were frozen on the vine and then harvested. Unlike the telephones, this actually WAS a fairly recent development, with major production only beginning around 1960 (they were produced only sporadically before then). I've had ice cider (same deal, with apples) and it was quite good. Top producers of ice wine are Canada and Germany, as very few wine-producing nations get cold enough to freeze.
> 
> I always felt that, whatever else it was, the holy water and "You go too fast for me" was some attempt at a reconciliation, some reaching out to connect. The problem is these two boys never learned to communicate. They don't apologize. They don't talk about their feelings. They don't want to directly speak about what the holy water could mean. Which basically means that once Aziraphale takes that first step, handing it over - it's very unclear where they go from there. Fortunately, they generally find a way.


	14. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paris, 1793: After the Bastille, Crowley learns over crepes that Aziraphale is an absolutely TERRIBLE flirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 19 - Wish

“Do you ever wish for anything?” Aziraphale asked abruptly, just as he started in on his third order of crepes.

“Ah, how do you mean?” The question caught Crowley off-guard. Many things this evening had caught him off-guard. Finding Aziraphale locked up in the Bastille; the looks the angel had shot him, over and over, during his rescue attempt; and even now, the way Aziraphale’s habitual facade of innocence kept slipping, dropping just enough to reveal something not innocent in the least.

“Come now, Crowley. This is your primary employment. Temptations. Wishes.” He raised a bite of crepe to his lips and raised his eyebrows. “Desires.”

It suddenly occurred to Crowley – in a panic-induced firing of neurons – that Aziraphale might be attempting to _flirt_ with him.

This was frightening in several ways.

First, it wasn’t how they did things. Their entire unspoken agreement – even deeper than the Arrangement – was that everything was treated in a strictly business way. Business mixed with pleasure, of course: a shared bottle of wine, a dinner of the latest luxury food, a trip to the theater where they could talk in private. But still, professional, distant, amicable at best.

Second, any changes in their attitudes towards each other was dangerous. Bound to be noticed. Bound to cause trouble. Exactly the kind of trouble Aziraphale was always warning him about.

Third, and most important, Aziraphale appeared to be _very bad_ at flirting.

“I suppose,” Crowley started slowly, “I wish you would learn to be a little more _careful_ and stop taking _foolish risks.”_ He hoped the angel would catch his meaning.

“That’s not what I had in mind.” Aziraphale lowered the fork, and his other hand rose from his lap and came to rest on the table, barely an inch from Crowley’s. It wasn’t a very big table, but there was no chance that was a coincidence. “I mean, is there something that you…that you have longed for?”

“Like crepes. Not really, I don’t eat much.” He was babbling at this point. His fingers twitched away, but there wasn’t anywhere to move his hand, not without being obvious.

And, despite how _unbelievably bad_ this situation was…he didn’t want to be obvious. Didn’t want Aziraphale to feel rejected. Didn’t want to pull away from the warmth of that hand.

“Apart from food, then.” Aziraphale finally took the bite, and just for a moment seemed to forget all about his dining companion as a look of sheer bliss ran across his face. Crowley’s stomach dropped away. Three orders of crepes and he _still_ wasn’t prepared for that expression, for the unrestrained joy, for the sudden desire to reach out, to see if he could put that smile on Aziraphale’s face himself –

Oh, that _bastard angel._ He was doing it on _purpose!_

Crowley cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I wish I wasn’t in the middle of this Revolution. I wish Head Office would stop giving me credit for the absolute worst of humanity. I wish I could be sure they wouldn’t show up and check in on me _at any moment.”_ How much more blatant could he _be?_

“I suppose,” Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose I also wish I could be assured a little privacy. I wonder sometimes, what I might do if there were no chance anyone would find out.” His finger stretched out, brushing against Crowley’s. The gesture was far too deliberate, and Aziraphale was looking straight at him. “What things might I wish to do then?”

Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. This was beyond embarrassing. This was a disaster to surpass anything he’d ever seen.

Worse, it was actually _working._ His hand burned to grab Aziraphale’s drag him into a corner, and find out just how stupid the two of them could be. The chances of anyone checking in on them in _this_ city, in _this_ creperie, at _this_ exact moment were almost infinitesimally small. Crowley was ready for it, Aziraphale had apparently forgotten every concept of caution, they were both intelligent beings of the world. Why shouldn’t they risk it?

Why shouldn’t they risk eternal torment at the hands of their respective sides for a few minutes of pleasure?

That was better than a bucket of cold water on Crowley’s brain. Aziraphale might believe his side was forgiving, that he was risking little more than a strongly-worded letter, but Crowley knew from first-hand experience how the Archangels treated their enemies. And he doubted an angel who consorted with a demon would be treated any better.

“Aziraphale,” he said, drawing his hands back, folding them in front of him. “What are you doing?”

“I…” He flushed, suddenly looking very uncertain. Very hurt. “I just meant… That is, I didn’t mean… I was just making conversation.”

“Do you think I don’t know a Temptation when I see one?” Aziraphale flinched at that, jerking his own hand back as if he’d been struck. “Especially one so… _flagrant?_ It’s humiliating.”

“Oh. I. Oh.” He deflated, shrinking into himself, melting away before Crowley’s eyes. “I thought… I thought you wanted…”

“No, Aziraphale. This… _this,”_ he waved his hand vaguely to indicate everything the angel had done and suggested, “isn’t what I want. It’s not my secret _desire,_ not my _wish,_ not some hidden _fantasy_ I’ve had locked in my brain.” He knew he was laying it on too thick, but if there was a chance, even a _chance_ someone had seen this… “I don’t know what you were hoping to get from me, or why you thought it would work, but it needs to stop. Now.”

Crowley had thought he knew every expression Aziraphale was capable of – from the bliss of trying a new food to the wretched misery of confessing he’d given away his sword. But nothing, _nothing_ could have prepared him for the look of heartbreak he saw now.

“Well. I…” Oh, _Satan,_ he wasn’t even trying to cover it up with a fake smile. “I should…”

Before Crowley could move, Aziraphale was on his feet, all but running out of the restaurant.

–-

If there was one thing Aziraphale was good at, it was stopping himself from crying. He had centuries, millennia, an eternity of practice at keeping the tears at bay, no matter what he felt, no matter what tragedy he was forced to witness. After all, if it was all part of the Great, Ineffable Plan, why should he mourn a moment’s pain?

But this…this wasn’t part of the Plan. This was just his heart, torn out, tossed aside. But he didn’t need it. He didn’t need any of it. He was an –

“Angel!”

He walked faster.

“Ang – Aziraphale, _stop!”_

He would have run if he could, but it didn’t matter – he was no match for those long legs, and in a moment he felt Crowley’s hand on his arm.

“Leave me be.” He tried to shrug it off. “You’ve made your point.”

“I really don’t think I have,” Crowley growled, low and dangerous. He pulled Aziraphale back towards him, grabbing his lapels, shoving him back against the nearest wall, standing so close their noses nearly brushed. “You want to know what I _wish for?_ What I _want?”_

“Crowley, stop, I was just –”

“Oh, I’ll tell you.” He leaned in even closer, until his hot breath burned against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, as he hissed: “I want you.”

He couldn’t even respond, couldn’t make a sound around the lump in his throat.

“But I don’t want some bloody snog in a Paris alleyway. I want to spend eternity with you. My _deepest desire_ is to hear your voice and your laugh every day. My _fantasy_ is to wake up next to you, spend every minute at your side, and fall asleep to the sound of your heartbeat. And when I _wish,_ I wish for us to stay safe, to keep going, until we can find a way to make that happen.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried to whisper, but his breath was harsh. There were tears running down his face. “That’s…you know that’s impossible…”

“I don’t care. I am not going to give up, not ever. I will not trade that for a few minutes of pleasure. And I won’t risk you. Not for anything. So don’t be stupid.”

He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He reached out, put his hands on Crowley’s waist, pulled him closer, so that just for a second, he felt the full weight of his adversary, his rescuer, his friend pressed against him.

Then he shoved the demon away with all his strength. “Oh, I think we understand each other now,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound cold and authoritative, as an angel should. “I think I understand exactly what it is you want.”

Crowley smiled, and if it was supposed to look cruel or wicked, Aziraphale saw right through that to the sadness it masked. “So you see, your wiles were never going to work on me. Best stick to what you’re good at, Angel.”

“You’ll regret saying that, I think.” Aziraphale wiped the tears from his face. “I look forward to our next encounter.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

They held each other’s gaze for another moment, basking in the warmth of the vision Crowley had planted in their hearts.

And then walked away in opposite directions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on my Tumblr!](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189768367637/desire)
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Oops, wait, this one also has nothing to do with Christmas. Um. *Sweating* In France, National Crepe Day is February 2, which is also Candlemas, aka the Feast of the Presentation of Jesus, which takes place 40 days after Christmas? Is that enough of a connection? Nailed it!
> 
> (Honestly, I got so wrapped up in my romance theme I forgot to tie in Christmas a couple of times.)


	15. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotland, 6th century BC: Aziraphale awakes in Crawley's care to find he has burned out his ability to perform miracles.
> 
> Featured tropes: Snowed in, only one bed, hurt/comfort, tenderness, bonding, pining, bed sharing, walking arm-in-arm, makeovers, Greek poetry and hearkbreaking ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15 – Laughter  
> 16 – Ice Storm  
> 17 – Ornament  
> 20 – Reindeer  
> 21 - Gift
> 
> This was an attempt to catch up on all the prompts I'd missed. Story clocks in at over 8k so get comfortable!

Aziraphale woke, which was itself unusual, because he didn’t remember falling asleep.

He didn’t like sleeping. It was strange, it was pointless, and downright disorienting. His mind was filled with patent nonsense about…trees? Swimming? Something about the Garden of Eden. And a lengthy diatribe on different cloak materials given by…Gabriel, he thought.

All of that faded away into a sense of being comfortably buried in a pile of soft, dark feathers, an earthy smell, mixed with smoke and pine, and warmth.

This was the point where he woke up.

He was still trying to sort out what was dream and what was reality. The scents seemed real, the soft pile seemed to be furs (most of them dark), not feathers. He tried to sit up, but his limbs still felt all soft and heavy…

“Are you finally awake, then?” demanded a very familiar voice.

Suddenly, Aziraphale had all the energy he needed to sit upright. There, not ten feet away, stood a certain demon in black breeches and belted tunic. A certain demon, he realized in a rush of heat, who had made a small but rather memorable appearance in his dream.

“C – Crawley! What are you doing here?”

Golden eyes stared at him for a moment. “Well, I _live_ here, for a start.”

Aziraphale looked around – as his eyes adjusted, he could see that they were in a small, round hut, with a tall conical roof. The fire in the center illuminated Crawley, but mostly just created darker shadows. Just enough light to see that the walls were stone filled in with mud and straw, the roof a thick thatch of some form. In the darkness on the other side of the hearth, a rectangle of light marked the entryway, covered by some kind of mat.

“Ah. Right. And…where is here, exactly?”

“Probably the _fourth_ most miserable island I’ve had the misfortune to be assigned to. The locals call it Pritani, though this far north it’s Alba.”

“That sounds familiar.” The fog of sleep had mostly cleared, and he could now remember Gabriel, rather rudely interrupting his lunch in Halicarnassos to tell Aziraphale he’d been reassigned. A quick message to deliver to one of the tribal leaders, teleport in and out, back before you know it. “I thought it was in the Celtic lands.”

“Oh, it is. This is definitely Celtic land.”

“Then wh –” Aziraphale very abruptly realized that the pile of furs he was lying among was almost certainly Crawley’s bed. He still wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there, but he needed to get out of it. Immediately.

He tossed aside the layers covering him, jumping to his feet – and instantly regretted it.

Despite the fire, the hut was frigid. Aziraphale’s feet froze on contact with the bare earth, and a cold wind seemed to twist around him, cutting through the light linen of his knee-length wrap. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck prickled, standing up, and he felt the shivers begin somewhere between his shoulder blades and ripple out through his entire body.

Aziraphale had never, _ever_ been so cold.

He snapped his fingers, trying to increase the heat of the fire.

Nothing.

He tried again, attempting to manifest warmer clothes.

Nothing.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers over and over, trying to summon his cloak, a bowl of soup, even one of the furs off the bed behind him.

Nothing worked.

“What…” he demanded faintly, suddenly unable to focus. “What did you do…?”

“I didn’t do anything, except drag you in here out of an ice storm. Get back in that bed before you discorporate on me.” Despite his harsh tone, Crawley’s hands were gentle as he shoved Aziraphale back onto the fur-covered bench, pulling the thickest back over him. “Stay here, or I swear I’ll sit on you.”

“This is absurd, why am I – why can’t I –” He sneezed.

They both stared in shock for a moment. Angels sneezed even less often than they slept.

“If you’ve got some wretched virus,” Crawley growled warningly, “you’re on your own. I’m not making you soup or…whatever it is humans do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m an angel. I don’t get sick.” Or cold. Or tired. Or _lose my ability to perform miracles._ He finally relented, curling up in the bed on his side, facing the scowling demon. “Do you…do you know what happened?”

Crawley shrugged, stepping back to tend to the fire again. “I was sitting here, getting ready for another bloody winter of ice and ten-foot snow drifts when suddenly I sensed a _lot_ of power somewhere in the area. I figured either a small angelic army was about to appear on my threshold, or some idiot had just teleported himself across the entire continent without preparing properly. So, I went to check it out.” He glared across the fire, eyes catching the light like golden embers. “One idiot, frozen almost solid.”

“But I did prepare myself,” Aziraphale insisted. “I’ve been to the Celtic lands before, and I’ve never burned out my powers doing it.” He shivered, huddling deeper under the furs. “And it certainly wasn’t so cold, either.”

“Really? Which tribes have you visited, then?”

“Many! Thracians, Illyrians, Dacians. Not to mention the tribes north of the Latin cities.”

Crawley _hmm_ ’d over that rather longer than he needed to. “Sounds like you haven’t really been outside the Greek-speaking sphere, then.”

“I went to Iberia once,” he admitted. That could explain things, if he’d teleported himself from the eastern end of the Mediterranean to the western. “The Lusitani, then?”

“Getting closer. Go north.”

“Gauls?”

“More north.”

Aziraphale had to wrack his brains. He’d never even _heard_ of people living beyond the Gauls. “Belgae?” he ventured.

Crawley sighed and pointed towards the entryway. “We’re about eight miles northwest of the nearest Votadini settlement; go north about a day and you get into Pictish lands. Right here, though, is just about the middle of nowhere.”

“I’ve…never heard of any of that. Are we…far from Halicarnassos?”

“Oh, Angel. You just teleported yourself about twenty-five _hundred_ miles. You’ll be lucky to get your power back before _spring.”_

–-

It had taken over an hour of searching the woods to find Aziraphale, his sense so dim it might as well have not existed.

An ice storm isn’t as dramatic as the name sounds. It _looks,_ from the safety of a warm shelter, like a gentle rain. Except that each drop burned with cold where it found bare skin, except that the ground froze into layer after layer of slick white ice, except that the wind cut through everything, biting, tearing away every bit of warmth.

Even with his full power, creating a bubble of warmth under his furs, Crawley had been miserable every second he’d been outside. How much worse, then, for Aziraphale?

Crawley had found him, unconscious and barely shivering, under a fir tree, useless linen cloak soaked through, ice already forming in his hair. There’d been a scroll clutched in his hand, but the ink had run, the message ruined.

A few quick miracles had stabilized the now-all-too-mortal angel; now he just needed time to recover his strength. He’d slept through most of the day, pale white face nestled among the dark furs of Crawley’s bed. He snored. Not very angelic, a snore like that.

Now that he was awake – now that he was aware of how badly he’d burned himself out – Crawley let Aziraphale sulk, hiding under the covers, for a bit longer. Then he dropped a pile of clothes on the end of the sleeping bench. “You’ll want to get changed. Fine linen won’t do you much good up here.”

The angel sat up, tugging at the tunic Crawley had manifested for him. It wasn’t easy, manifesting clothes for someone else, since Crawley generally just made them appear on his own body. Nothing his size would fit, so he’d probably erred on the side of making them too big. Leggings. Tunic. Wool cloak. All in undyed white, since Aziraphale probably wouldn’t appreciate black and red.

“You, ah, you didn’t need to do this.”

“Yes, I did. Once you’re ready I can walk you to whichever settlement you’re supposed to be at and you can spend the winter with them. But if you try and step out dressed like that, you’ll probably be discorporated in less than an hour.”

“Well. I suppose you have a point.” Aziraphale pulled his arms out from under the fur and quickly unhooked one of the pins holding his wrap together. It parted at the neck, revealing quite a lot of bicep and chest.

Crawley spun away, startled at how hot his face felt. It was just a _body,_ for Satan’s sake. Not even his _real_ body, just a false one he wore to look human. There was no reason to feel embarrassed or…whatever this other emotion was.

“I’ll just. Get some more firewood while you do that.” He hurried out, pushing aside the willow mat to step into the frigid air once again.

Most of the firewood had already been moved inside; realistically he wouldn’t need to replenish from the woodpile for at least a month. But the slap of the wind in his face, the splash of rain down the back of his neck, was exactly what he needed just now.

The ground was treacherous, even more than it had been this morning. He waved his fingers, manifesting a clear path, but even as he walked it began to freeze up again, and where the water stayed liquid it leaked into his shoes, freezing his toes.

It took ten minutes to get enough dry wood free from the pile to make the trip worth it. That should be more than enough time for the angel to figure out breeches. But walking back with his armload of wood only reminded him of the other burden he’d carried in earlier.

He hadn’t wanted to carry Aziraphale in his arms. Oh, he could miracle himself strong enough for the task, for a short while at least. But it had seemed almost a violation of trust, an intimacy that he should have asked permission for. To have his arms around the shoulders and legs, to feel the soft curve of the belly pressed into his, to have Aziraphale’s face rest on his shoulder, so close…

To hear that breath get more and more shallow, to feel the heat slip away…

With a shudder, he pushed back through the mat into the dark roundhouse. Aziraphale was sitting on the side of the bed, fiddling with the brooch that held his cloak shut.

“Here, I’ll do it.” Crawley tossed aside the wood. He could stack it later. He sat down on the bed, and found that Aziraphale was trying to clasp his cloak with one of the long, straight fibulae that had held together his linen outfit. “This isn’t going to work. Use one of mine.” He snapped his fingers and summoned – _oops._

“How interesting.” Aziraphale picked up the nearly circular piece of iron. The metal was twisted, as if coiled, and the two ends where they parted had the shape of snake heads. “I suppose serpents are quite fashionable, aren’t they?” His tone suggested he was teasing, but Crawley couldn’t see any hint of it in his eyes.

“I can…I can make a new one. What do you want? Just plain? Maybe some feathers?”

“No, this is fine. I want to blend in, don’t I?”

Crawley shrugged, and quickly jabbed the penannular brooch through the wool of the cloak, fastening it over his left shoulder. “When you want to take it off, just pull it over your head. Don’t mess around with the pin again.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale stood up. “I suppose, yes, this outfit is fine. If you could see your way to giving me some shoes, I can be out of your hair.”

“So soon?”

“I was under the impression that my presence was making things difficult for you.”

Crawley gulped, tracing the toe of his shoe through the earthen floor. “Not _difficult,_ really. I just…I thought you were really sick for a bit. I don’t know how to take care of someone who’s sick. Kind of useless like that.”

“It would appear you have taken care of me…more than adequately.”

Crawley nodded. “Well, if you go out now, you _will_ get sick. And then I’m stuck with you making all kinds of weird body fluids. Let’s wait until the storm is over.”

–-

By the time night fell, the rain still hadn’t stopped. Crawley manifested some hot food – roasted meat, berries and nuts, a bit of bread.

“I’m not very good at it yet,” he grumbled, taking a drink of something from a mug. He had stockpiled several large jars of alcoholic-smelling liquid, but very little actual food. “I only eat occasionally, so I don’t practice.”

“Well, it tastes very… _authentic,”_ Aziraphale encouraged. It did taste exactly like real food, or at least he couldn’t tell it wasn’t. He didn’t know what these particular berries were supposed to taste like. “And it’s quite filling,” he added, breaking off another piece of bread.

“Nh. I can make you more of the same, but that’s about it. You’re going to need to eat and sleep every day until your powers return.”

“I’m sure I can manage on this for as long as I need to.” He hesitated, hand halfway to his mouth. “Sleep, too?”

Crawley shrugged. “Maybe every two days. I don’t know how it works with angels. Are you feeling tired yet?”

“No.” Aziraphale struggled to sit up straight; he'd been slouching for quite some time. “I’m just… My mind feels a little slow. And my head is heavy. And my legs feel…strange…”

Crawley laughed a little. “Yes, that’s the exhaustion. Lay down for a bit.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, certainly not. I slept enough today.” Perhaps a quick walk would clear his head, if only there was somewhere to go.

“Doesn’t matter, Angel. You’ve been sick and, healing or no, you need rest.”

“I’m not _tired,_ Crawley. It’s probably just all the smoke. Why do you have the fire in the middle of your living chamber? It can’t be good for the lungs.”

“It keeps the walls from freezing. And I can _see_ you’re tired, it’s all over your face.”

“You’re lying.” Aziraphale caught himself rubbing his hand against his eye and slapped it down on the ground.

“Aziraphale. Do I have to force you back into the bed?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Crawley considered this. “You’re right. I wouldn’t. Seems like a strange thing to do. Sleep on the floor if you like, it’s what I plan to do.”

“Now you’re just being silly. You take the bed, I’m not planning to sleep.”

Crawley just rolled his eyes and drained his cup. Then he stretched out next to the banked fire, as if he hadn’t even heard the suggestion. “Night.”

“Don’t be absurd, I know you can’t fall asleep that quickly.” No response except for the gentle flicker of the cooling coals. Aziraphale stared at them, hoping the light and heat would give him something to focus on. And he could recite.

_Achilles’ wrath, to Greece the direful spring_   
_Of woes unnumber’d, heavenly goddess sing!_   
_That wrath which hurl’d to Pluto’s gloomy reign_   
_The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain…_

He tried to focus on the words, to ignore the way his voice started to slur them almost immediately, the way he kept faltering through the familiar lines. It was like being drunk, but not being able to sober up. And there was the yawning. Just losing control over his jaw, his breathing. How do humans _live like this?_

 _…‘Instab…Insatiate king,’ this man relied,_  
 _‘Fond of power…ah…fonder…something…_ prize!  
 _Would’st thou the Greeks…their something something prey…_  
 _The…spoils? No reward of…field…should yield!’_

“So, is everyone in this poem an ass?”

“Beg your pardon?” Aziraphale didn’t even have the energy to be indignant. His whole brain felt stuffed full of cotton.

“All the men fighting over who gets to torment which women. Do the women kill them all in the end?”

“Mmmmh, no, mostly they kill each other.” He struggled to remember. “Agamemnon gets killed by his wife, though.”

“Nice.” A pair of gold eyes appeared in the darkness beyond the hearth. “Just lay down and go to sleep. You need it.”

“No. I hate it.” Aziraphale rubbed his face again. “I hate sleeping. It’s a waste of time, doesn’t make sense, and gets all…dreamlike,” he found he couldn’t even make a sentence. “And it feels like dying.”

“What?”

“Falling asleep. Mind slipping away. Everything goes dim. Like dying.” He dug both hands into his eyes. “Don’t know if I’ll wake up.”

“Of course you’ll wake up. There’s nothing wrong with _you,_ Aziraphale, and your body is fine, just a little worn out. Even if something did go wrong, you’d wake up back in Heaven.”

He shook his head. Then he shook it again, hoping the movement might help. It didn’t.

Suddenly, Crawley was standing next to him. “Get in the bed.”

“Mmmh?”

“You’re about to fall over on the floor. It’s going to be undignified, and you’ll be embarrassed in the morning. Just get into the bed.”

Aziraphale was too tired to protest. The soft furs embraced him, and once more were piled on top, it was all he could do from slipping into complete insensibility.

Crawley knelt beside the bed. “I’ll be right here. Nothing’s going to happen to you while you’re asleep.” He placed his hand on the furs next to Aziraphale, and he found his own fingers curling around the demon’s warm palm.

“You need to sleep,” Aziraphale reminded him, voice now thick and slow.

“Nah. I only sleep cuz I like it. _You’re_ the one who needs to sleep.” Crawley’s thumb traced across the back of his hand. “Just close your eyes. You’re almost there.”

Aziraphale didn’t remember falling asleep.

He did remember that this dream featured more than just a brief appearance of red hair and golden eyes.

When he finally awoke, it was to find Crawley still beside him, still holding his hand, and fast asleep.

The demon’s head rested on one of the furs, red hair spilling around it. It was shorter than he usually wore it – a little more than shoulder length – and bits of it were woven into braids, while other parts were loose and free.

Feeling strangely emboldened – maybe from the sleep, maybe from the dream – Aziraphale reached over and shifted one braid where it hung down Crawley’s cheek, tucking it back behind his ear. The demon’s face was so relaxed, none of his usual sour expression. So peaceful.

Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Aziraphale got out of the bed and set about building the fire. When Crawley finally woke, Aziraphale didn’t tell him how they’d slept, fingers entwined, faces so close. How could he explain it?

What if it made Crawley angry?

What if it didn’t?

–-

“We should try going for a walk,” Crawley said as Aziraphale picked at some food by the fire. “The nearest settlement is a little less than a day in either direction. I want to make sure you have your strength back before we try that.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I’m fine, Crawley. There’s no need to worry.”

“You only slept the entire day yesterday. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure.” He squinted at Aziraphale’s face, which had been bright pink all morning. “And you look a bit flushed. Maybe we should stay in after all, you might be getting worse.”

“Stop fussing. I’m probably just…sitting too close to the fire.” Aziraphale climbed to his feet. “If walking will prove I’m fine, then we walk. I will need some form of foot covering, of course.”

Crawley manifested a pair of leather shoes, then another when the first didn’t fit. He added extra woolen leg wraps, a felted hat, and finally a large, heavy fur. Again and again, Aziraphale told him not to fret – but he put on each new addition.

Crawley still didn’t like how pale he looked, in between the moments of pink flush. Of course, wearing so much white was bound to make anyone look sallow; but the only other color Crawley knew how to make was black.

“Are you satisfied?” Aziraphale asked. “I look like a ball of cotton.”

“One more.” He snapped his fingers and produced a long wool scarf.

“Really, my dear fellow, I don’t think I’m going to need a sweat cloth out there.”

“What? No, up here they wear them for warmth.” He showed the angel how to wrap it around his neck, cover his mouth, and tuck the rest under his furs.

“There really is no need to worry,” Aziraphale started again in a slightly muffled voice.

“Maybe a pair of mittens?”

“I’m walking outside now.”

The storm had covered the world in beautiful devastation. Every twig on every tree was coated with almost half an inch of perfectly clear ice, sparkling in the sunlight. Several smaller trees had been pulled double, bent to the ground under the weight of frozen water. Enormous icicles hung from the eaves of the roundhouse.

“It’s incredible,” Aziraphale breathed, a hiss of white vapor working its way out from under the scarf. “I assume your home isn’t usually in the middle of a lake.”

“Nope.” He rammed his heel into the ground, planning to break off a piece, but instead nearly fell over. Aziraphale laughed as he skidded, grabbing at the roundhouse for balance. “Never mind that. But it’s not even two inches thick.” He waved a finger at the path ahead, parting the ice enough for the two of them to walk side-by-side.

The angel looked around appreciatively as their path brought them deeper into the white forest. “It’s very quiet, though,” he said suddenly. “No birds or anything.”

“I don’t know about down in the Greek lands, but most birds and animals don’t stick around once it starts getting cold. They either sleep through it or head further south.”

“Hmm. I like the sound of that. Winters in Ephesus or Neapolis are definitely warmer. Where would you rather be?”

“Ah, I’m not much for migration. Normally I sleep through the winter, but someone’s been using my bed.”

When Crawley realized what he’d said, he wished he could encase himself in ice. No chance Aziraphale missed it, either, he was looking _right at Crawley,_ and with everything else buried in warm layers it was very obvious how wide his eyes were, how high his eyebrows.

“But, you know, some animals are very stupid. Some birds from even further north like to spend the winter here. Probably moved on ahead of this storm, but if you’re lucky there might be some ducks at the lake. Would you like to see the ducks?”

He was babbling, but he needed something, anything to get Aziraphale to stop staring at him like that. He walked off, as fast as he could, leaving the angel to hurry in his wake.

“Crawley! Slow down!”

He turned to walk backwards, planning to say something clever, but realized Aziraphale was genuinely struggling. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just…” He bent over, hands planted on his knees, gasping for breath. “I don’t seem to have any, you know, stamina today.”

Crawley rushed back over, pulling down the scarf to get a good look at Aziraphale’s face, studying his eyes especially. “I don’t like how you look. We’re going back.”

“Oh, not yet.” Aziraphale took another breath. “I’m not that weak. Can we walk to the lake? I would like to see the ducks.”

“It’s pretty far. I’m not sure you can make it.”

“No, I’ll be fine. I just can’t go too fast.” Aziraphale smiled, but Crawley wasn’t convinced.

“Fine. But hold onto my arm.”

“Crawley, I’m not an _invalid.”_

“Take my arm or we’re going back.” He held out his right elbow, and after a moment Aziraphale slipped his arms through. “Alright. This way.”

–-

It was a rather long way to the lake, and more than once Aziraphale was glad to have Crawley’s arm to lean on. Not that he would say that.

“I haven’t seen any other houses.”

“And you won’t. No one lives on this strip of land except me.”

“Whyever not? It’s quite lovely and peaceful here.”

“Only because everyone’s bundled up inside for the winter. There’s at least four different tribes in easy walking distance from here, and they’re constantly fighting, stealing each other’s cattle, and generally making nuisances of themselves.”

“That’s a pity. Why…” Aziraphale glared at him. _“Crawley.”_

“What? I’m a demon. Did you think I was up here getting in touch with nature for my health? For some reason, Hell constantly wants to see them fighting each other, so every week I’m Tempting one clan leader or another tribal elder. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.” He shrugged. “They are _loud,_ though, so I usually take the winter off.”

“Still. I can’t believe you’ve been up here for – how many years now? Just making sure a few hundred people are constantly at war?”

“They do most of the work themselves, honestly. They were fighting long before I showed up, and they’ll be fighting long after I’m reassigned to some other unnamed pile of rock in the middle of nowhere. Which is just about every decade. I’ve been here for seven years now.”

“Seems rather pointless, when you put it like that,” Aziraphale murmured, looking again around the silent glass forest.

“I mean, it’s better than being Gabriel’s messenger boy. Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped as Aziraphale turned his glare back at Crawley. “You told me yourself he’s been sending you to deliver messages all around the Mediterranean. Are they really that important? Is what you came up here to say worth risking your life for?”

“Not my life, just my corporation,” Aziraphale insisted, then sighed. “But, no, I memorized the message before I came over, and I don’t think it was worth the journey.”

“Really? What did it say?”

The angel tried to look stern. “I’m to tell one of the tribal leaders to stop fighting with his neighbors.” Crawley’s eyes went wide with shock, and suddenly Aziraphale couldn’t hold back the smile. “There were several very elaborate pleas and arguments I was supposed to make, you know. Very convincing material.”

Crawley threw back his head and laughed. “Well. I’m sure whatever Gabriel wrote for you to say is more than enough to counteract my influence.”

“Oh, it was a very compelling argument. All about the many advantages of joining civilization.”

“Really? Advantages?” Aziraphale didn’t like the grin Crawley was giving him now. “Name one.”

 _“Name one?_ It’s civilization, it’s all advantages.” Aziraphale huffed. “Fine. Roads.”

“Already have them. Nice and broad and connecting most of the settlements.”

“Trade networks.”

“Have those, too. It’s a bit slow, but the metals get where they need to be.”

“Literature.”

“No one needs your misogynistic war poem. Next.”

“Fine, how about _writing?_ Do they even have record keeping?”

“Nope. But talk to some Druids, they have this oral tradition thing down to a science.”

“Bath houses.”

“Natural hot springs.”

“Stone working.”

“Did you see my house?”

“Monumental architecture.”

“Make sure you visit some of the stone circles on your way out. Might not be Khufu’s pyramid, but it’s not nothing.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “You sound almost proud of them.”

Crawley didn’t even bother to hide his smile. “Look, they might be a bunch of cattle-stealing shit heads, but they don’t need an emperor or a king or a senate or some other collection of assholes sitting in a fancy building to tell them how to do things. They do fine on their own.”

“It’s not about the leader, it’s about a structured society. It’s the only way to get things accomplished!”

“Is it though?”

Aziraphale concentrated on walking, and fuming in silence. How much further was this stupid lake anyway?

Suddenly, Crawley stopped short. “Look!” he pointed ahead.

Between the trees, Aziraphale saw – not a lake, but a herd of enormous deer, half with antlers, covered in thick fur coats in brown and grey and white. They stomped at the ice, shuffling it aside to browse at dried grass, leaves, and even rocks. One scraped its fuzzy antlers at a tree trunk, cracking the ice, nibbling on the bark underneath.

“Those aren’t ducks,” Aziraphale said cleverly, watching the herd slowly move across their path.

“Obviously not. Reindeer. They don’t usually come this far from the mountains.”

They watched for a long time. There was something majestic, peaceful about the enormous creatures, nosing their way through the forest. Where a deer might have panicked and run, these hardly even spared a glance toward the angel and demon.

When they finally passed out of sight, Aziraphale realized he was leaning quite heavily on Crawley. “I suppose we should head back,” he said softly. “That’s more than enough for today.”

–-

Another meal, another few hours by the fire, and Crawley was pleased to see Aziraphale’s color was turning back to something almost normal, by his standards. Not that he was watching.

At least, not _obviously_ watching. He was holding the wool cloak he’d manifested the day before, trying to add a bit of color.

“It’s probably fine, Crawley,” Aziraphale said, watching him struggle. “I don’t mind wearing white.”

“Well, the people you’re supposed to visit will. Bright colors, fancy borders, lots of ornamentation. If you want to get their leader to listen to you, you’ll have to look the part.”

“I thought you didn’t like my message.”

“Just because you’re obviously doomed to failure doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get a chance to try.” He glanced up, then took a longer look. Aziraphale’s face had fallen, though he was trying not to show it. “What? What did I say?”

“No, it’s…you didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, I obviously did.” Crawley stood up and moved to sit beside the angel. “What is it now?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just.” He fiddled with his tunic, as if trying to figure out how it worked. “Whenever I have an original idea, Gabriel tells me I’m welcome to try, but it’s obviously doomed to failure. He’s usually right, too.”

“No he isn’t.” He focused on the cloak again, trying to imagine a pattern with simple stripes. “I’ve known you a long time. The ideas you come up with on your own are _much_ better than whatever orders you’re given, and you know it. Have you actually ever successfully thwarted me by following what _Gabriel_ told you to do?”

“Well, usually when I manage to thwart you, it’s because I convinced you that getting drunk was better than whatever you had planned.”

“And it works!” Crawley smiled at him. “I’m sure if you come up with your own argument for the leaders, it’ll work much better than the original message. Just don’t tell them to get drunk, they do that enough as it is.” He turned back to the cloak, which was now covered by a pattern of vertical and horizontal lines in beige, dark grey, and red. “Oh, what even is this?”

Aziraphale pulled it out of his hands. “I don’t know. It looks rather stylish to me.”

“You’re going to look ridiculous. No one dresses like that.”

“No one dresses like you either, dear. Maybe I should take a lesson from you.” He settled the cloak back around his shoulders, serpent pin under one ear, strange crossed line pattern falling down his shoulder. “What do you think?”

“It’s a start.” Crawley glanced at the willow mat; already all trace of sunlight was gone. Days were generally less than six hours this time of year. “But take it back off, you’ll just throttle yourself in your sleep.”

“Crawley, I’m not tired,” Aziraphale said, immediately betrayed by an enormous yawn.

“Yes, you are, because I’m also tired. Anyway, at least get under the furs so I can bank the fire. Then you can tell me more awful stories of horrible Greek men.”

Surprisingly, Aziraphale didn’t object this time. Crawley turned to the fire. With a flick of fingers, he lowered the flames to nothing, then carefully separated out the glowing coals, and piled ash on top of the remaining wood to keep it hot and ready to burn in the morning.

He turned back to find Aziraphale was in the bed, but the covering furs were still thrown open, and he’d left room enough for…

“No, Aziraphale. That’s. We’re not…No.”

“You said yourself that you prefer to sleep through the cold weather, and someone stole your bed. This is the obvious solution.”

“The obvious solution is for you to throw me one of the furs so the ground is more comfortable. Not… _that.”_ Why was his face so hot?

“I really must insist,” Aziraphale said softly. “I saw…how you fell asleep last night. That angle could not have been comfortable. And if I’m worrying about you, I’ll never be able to sleep.”

It really wasn’t anything to worry about. Nothing was going to happen. They were only going to sleep. It even made sense because of body heat or something, which Crawley seemed to have more than enough of at the moment. They were two supernatural beings who just happened to be inhabiting human-shaped bodies that were both in need of sleep and warmth and really, wasn’t this the optimal storage solution?

Crawley wasn’t buying any of it.

“Look. Angel. Um.” What was he supposed to say? _I can’t share a bed with you because I keep feeling things I’m fairly certain I’m not supposed to feel?_ He could never admit to that.

He carefully climbed onto the sleeping platform, taking care not to brush against Aziraphale in any way, pulling the furs up to cover them both.

Crawley was very… _aware._ Aware of every inch between them, where the distance was greater, where it was not. Aware of the brush of Aziraphale’s breath on his cheek and shoulder as they lay facing each other. Aware of how loudly his heart was beating. As his sight adjusted to the dark, aware of Aziraphale’s eyes, wide and very alert.

“You, um. You need to sleep, Angel.” As if either of them could sleep. _No, don’t be stupid. Aziraphale’s awake because he doesn’t like sleep. He isn’t going to be feeling any of this, he’s an_ angel.

“But I mean it, Crawley, I’m not tired. Maybe I won’t sleep at all tonight.”

And now Crawley was aware of Aziraphale trembling, and not from the cold.

“It’s going to be alright. I’m here. Where’s –?” He found Aziraphale’s hand again, as he had last night, holding it loosely so the angel could pull away whenever he wanted. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. Just fall asleep, dream a little, and when you wake up, it’s morning. Easy.”

“No, that’s all exactly what I _don’t_ like. How can you stand it?”

“I don’t know. Makes a nice break from reality, I guess. And I like that part when you first wake up, and everything’s still slow and heavy. It’s nice.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I hate it. I hate all of it.”

“The more sleep you get, the sooner you’ll have your strength back.” He ran his thumb across Aziraphale’s fingers. “Go on. Tell me more of your poem. Was it almost over?”

“Oh. Ah. The works of Homer are…quite extensive, actually.”

“Nh.” Crawley closed his eyes. “Alright. Hit me with it. We were arguing over who got to keep women captured in battle, I think.”

The soft voice out of the darkness began to recite:

_‘Insatiate king,’ Achilles thus replies,_   
_‘Fond of the power, but fonder of the prize!_   
_Would’st thou the Greeks their lawful prey should yield,_   
_The due reward of many a well-fought field…?’_

Eventually, the drone of dactylic hexameter lulled them both to sleep, and when Crawley awoke, he was alone in bed, and Aziraphale was lighting the fire.

–-

Each day, they walked a little further. It was frustratingly slow.

Aziraphale felt an urgent need to leave, almost as strong as his desire to stay.

“I mean, these bloody leaders fight over everything!” Crawley complained as they followed the same path towards the lake, still arm in arm, this time startling out a few white-feathered ptarmigans.

“Isn’t it your job to make them fight?”

“Yes, but – so last fall, I was trying to convince one of the leaders she should duel one of the others. There was this whole code of honor thing I was supposed to be setting up, real generational vendetta stuff. And instead, they start arguing over who has the best cheese!”

Aziraphale laughed until he had to lean his full weight against Crawley.

“That’s not even the worst of it! Instead of a battle, they’re going to settle this by _rolling their cheese down a hill.”_

“They –” Aziraphale gasped between laughs. “They haven’t done it yet?”

“No, apparently they need all winter to create _special rolling cheeses!”_

This so completely diverted the angel’s attention that his foot found a patch of ice and he nearly lost his balance, clutching tightly at Crawley to keep from falling entirely.

And they stood there, echoes of the laughter still faintly bouncing among the trees, Aziraphale clutching tightly to Crawley’s shoulders, Crawley’s hands holding Aziraphale’s waist, for far too long.

It wasn’t illness that had the angel’s face so hot, his heart hammering ready to burst. He was looking at the angle of Crawley’s cheek, the slope of his jaw, his golden eyes, the braids mixed with the loose curls of his hair – there was _so much_ to see, and he just kept drinking it in.

“We, ah.” Crawley cleared his throat. “We should go back.”

“I’m not tired,” Aziraphale insisted. “It’s just the ice.”

“We’re going back,” Crawley said more firmly.

Aziraphale nodded, and carefully straightened up to take his arm again.

–-

Every night, Crawley worked on another piece of Aziraphale’s clothing. The blue embroidery on his tunic came out much better than whatever had happened to the cloak. Red for the hat, which was a relief. He was good with red. The fur could stay white, but he carefully manipulated it, changing it from a generic piece of manifested pelt to something that looked like an actual white wolf. That would get the Celts talking.

“You’ll need more jewelry, too. They’re big on ornamentation.”

“What, exactly, did you have in mind?” Aziraphale was picking at his food. It couldn’t be comfortable, eating exactly the same thing every day. Crawley had tried mixing it up once, but the fish had been a disaster. He would need more practice. Still, the angel never complained.

“To start with, if you want to look important, you need a torc.”

“I have no idea what that might be.”

“It’s like a collar. A gold collar, no, silver. You look good in silver.”

He didn’t realize what he’d said until Aziraphale had been blinking at him for quite some time.

“Arg. Look, it doesn’t matter what I think, right?” Crawley looked at his hands, trying to picture the piece of jewelry. “But you want to look good for these chieftains and everything, and I’ve been working with them. I know what they like.” A long, solid circle of silver-white metal appeared in Crawley’s hands, slightly twisted and covered in a feather-like pattern. “They’ll all be wearing gold, so this will make you stand out.”

“You’ve been saying I want to blend in.”

Crawley shrugged. “Mostly blend in. But you still need something to differentiate you. So they know you’re someone to pay attention to.”

“It’s lovely.” Aziraphale took the ring of metal and started fastening it around his neck. “I’ve seen these before, in the southern Celtic lands. It goes like this?”

The widest part of the ring hung at the hollow of his throat; the feathery twists of the white metal perfectly matched the platinum in his curls.

Crawley reached over to adjust it, even though it didn’t need it, just for an excuse to brush his fingers across the soft skin. “Perfect.”

The next night it was a long, twisted arm band that ran from wrist to elbow. The night after that a collection of rings. More and more trinkets, carefully crafted to fit him exactly.

Every night, they lay in bed together, Crawley trying desperately not to notice the heat of another body even as their hands twined together between them. Every night, more of the same endless poem; it wasn’t about the story. The droning of it seemed the only thing that occupied Aziraphale’s mind, let him slide into sleep without fear.

Every morning, Crawley woke up alone. He worried a little that the angel always woke up first, but Aziraphale insisted that he wasn’t having nightmares or waking before dawn. That he rose early simply because he didn’t like to linger in bed doing nothing, even though most of their day was spent doing nothing.

–-

After a month, they finally made it to the lake. There were no ducks after all, but the shining plate of pure ice was impressive nonetheless. Crawley ran out onto it, skidding and slipping and sliding across the surface, while Aziraphale stood on solid ground and cheered him on.

Something was changing between them. Aziraphale had tried to deny it, but he could see it now. Crawley laughed more. He smiled more. He was almost completely at ease when Aziraphale took his arm or held his hand.

The angel almost wished it wasn’t true. It would make leaving so much harder.

That night they sat back against the sleeping bench in the dying firelight. “What we need to ornament now is…you,” Crawley explained.

“Hasn’t that been the entire point?”

“I mean _tattoos.”_

“Oh, no. No, I couldn’t.”

“Look, obviously not real. I don’t have a needle and a supply of woad. But…watch.” Crawley rolled up his own sleeve and traced a finger across his forearm. Where it went, a trail of blue followed behind, curling and curving across his skin, creating a triskele.

“I can’t go around branding myself with _pagan symbols.”_ Aziraphale thought it was a rather weak argument, all things considered.

“It’ll come off. As soon as your power is returned, just like this.” He brushed his hand across the tattoo, and it vanished. “The Picts are absolutely mad for them, and the others are almost as bad. They won’t believe you’re anyone of importance if you don’t have a few.”

Aziraphale rubbed his hands on his knees, trying to think of an objection. _Any_ objection. Finally he thrust up his sleeves.

“Spirals, lines, knotwork. _Only_ abstract shapes. And absolutely _no_ serpents.”

Crawley smiled, and began to trace his finger up Aziraphale’s arm.

The heat that raced through him had nothing to do with the manifestation.

Aziraphale had been afraid Crawley would go overboard, but just as with the jewelry, he seemed to know exactly what was appropriate. A spiral on one arm, a long cartouche filled with elaborately crossed knotwork on the other. Thick lines on his neck, an arch above one eyebrow. All the time Crawley was working on that one, so close, so very close, Aziraphale had to fight the urge to put his hands around Crawley’s waist. It seemed so natural now, and it shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t.

After some debate, they settled on a twisted line pattern, similar to the torc, across one bicep. It was unlikely to be seen, but would be impressive if revealed.

It meant Aziraphale had to take his tunic off while Crawley worked.

A month ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. It was just a body, not even _his_ body, just one that he wore to fit in. He shouldn’t be self-conscious about it.

No, it wasn’t self-consciousness. He saw the way Crawley glanced away from his work to take in everything. And he welcomed it.

He really, _really_ shouldn’t be trying to think of reasons to add more tattoos, to have Crawley touch every bit of skin just to feel the gentle tingle of those fingers…

“Alright,” Crawley sat back, clenching his fist. “Is that all? Do you want another?”

Not the question he wanted to be asked right now.

“I think I’m ready to sleep.” He wasn’t.

Aziraphale climbed into the bed, sliding over, making room as he had every night.

Crawley stood beside it, staring. “You. Um. You forgot to put your tunic back on.”

“I’m feeling a little warm.” That was true, in a way. “Does it bother you?”

Crawley stood there for a long time. Aziraphale knew that expression. It was one they’d both worn many times in the last month, when each desperately tried, and failed, to come up with an objection. Crawley failed tonight, and climbed into bed without comment.

When he took Aziraphale’s hand, the angel was almost certain they were both trembling.

“Right.” Crawley swallowed. “Right. More of that blasted poem. Are we done listing all the ships yet?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

_Shimmering-throned immortal Aphrodite,_   
_Daughter of Zeus, Enchantress, I implore thee,_   
_Spare me, O queen, this agony and anguish,_   
_Crush not my spirit._

“That,” Crawley’s voice was hesitant. “That sounds different.”

“It’s a different poet. I thought we could use a change.”

“Whatever helps you.”

_Whenever before thou has hearkened to me -_   
_To my voice calling to thee in the distance,_   
_And heeding, thou has come, leaving thy father’s_   
_Golden dominions,_

_With chariot yoked to thy fleet-winged coursers,_   
_Fluttering swift pinions over earth’s darkness,_   
_And bringing thee through the infinite, gliding_   
_Downwards from heaven,_

_Then, soon they arrived and thou, blessed goddess,_   
_With divine countenance smiling, didst ask me_   
_What new woe had befallen me now and why,_   
_Thus I had called thee._

_What in my mad heart was my greatest desire,_   
_Who was it now that must feel my allurements,_   
_Who was the fair one that must be persuaded,_   
_Who wronged thee, Sappho?_

_For if now she flees, quickly she shall follow_   
_And if she spurns gifts, soon shall she offer them_   
_Yea, if she knows not love, soon shall she feel it_   
_Even reluctant._

_Come then, I pray, grant me surcease from sorrow,_   
_Drive away care, I beseech thee, O goddess_   
_Fulfill for me what I yearn to accomplish,_   
_Be thou my ally._

There was a long moment of silence.

“That was…certainly different,” Crawley said.

“Did you like it?”

Pressure on the hand between them. “Maybe…I should hear it again?”

Aziraphale nodded, and recited the poem over and over until he drifted to sleep.

–-

When Crawley awoke the next morning, Aziraphale was not tending the fire.

He was still in bed. And very much not where Crawley had left him.

Crawley opened his eyes to find two soft, muscular arms wrapped around him, pressing him back into the curves of belly and chest that he had dreamt of all night. Aziraphale’s hot breath was right on his shoulder, just by the nape of his neck.

He tried very much not to move, not to wake the angel. How was he ever going to explain –

“Are you finally awake, then?”

“Aziraphale. What. What are you doing?”

“I’m not moving. I’m not getting up. As you’ve suggested.” The arms were very, very still. “Crawley. This is how I’ve woken up every morning since we started sharing this bed. I don’t…I assume we move in the night. In our sleep. And we end up like this. Every time.”

Crawley didn’t say anything. Just listened to that shaky breath behind him.

“At first I thought you would be angry. So I would get up without waking you. But lately…I haven’t been so sure. And I think you deserve to know. To know that I reach out for you in the night, even when I don’t mean to. To know that I dream about you every time. To know that…I’ve probably been well enough to leave, powers or no, for at least a week, and I’ve only been leaning on your arm as we walk because…because I like how it feels.” The arms around Crawley’s waist tightened, just for a second. “To know that…if I don’t leave today…I don’t think I ever will.”

At that, Crawley turned to face him. The arms loosened enough to allow the movement, but didn’t let go. He lay there, Aziraphale’s hands on his hips, his own clutching the angel’s shoulders. “What…what do you want?” He could hardly believe what he was hearing. He could hardly think of what to say. His breath stuck in his throat as he stared at that beautiful face.

“Don’t ask me that. I’m an angel. I don’t get to want things.” He shivered, his blue eyes closing. But when they opened, they were full of tears. “But right now, I don’t feel like an angel. I feel very, very human, and so very weak. So I need you to do something for me, Crawley.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t say that.” Aziraphale’s voice was nearly breaking. “Because…I need you to throw me out. I need you to send me away, Crawley, I’m not strong enough to leave on my own.”

“Ang–”

_“Please, Crawley.”_

Crawley looked down at his own hands, resting on Aziraphale’s bare shoulders and chest, trying to steady his breathing. He closed his eyes, and moved his hand down the fur that covered them.

And pulled it aside.

“Get out of my bed,” he ordered, in as angry a tone as he could muster.

The arms vanished from around him, and a moment later, all the glorious heat he had grown so accustomed to was dissipating into the cold air.

He huddled down into the furs, trying to hold onto it, to keep some sense of Aziraphale, even as he heard the angel behind him, gathering his things – his clothing and jewelry that Crawley had made for him, all his gifts. He couldn’t turn. He couldn’t watch, or else he’d lose his resolve.

“Take the food,” Crawley snapped, not looking away from the stone wall. “I don’t need it.” He swallowed, trying to keep his voice from softening. “Go to the lake, and follow the river south until you reach a settlement. Give them the name of the leader you’re supposed to meet. They’ll tell you where to go.”

“Of course.” No more noise. He must be ready to leave.

“And don’t be there when I come down in the spring. Don’t be anywhere near here when the frost melts, do you hear me?”

“I won’t say ‘thank you,’” Aziraphale said, from someplace far too close. He should be leaving. “But I would like to give you a gift.”

“Well, you don’t own anything but what I gave you.” Crawley bit his tongue, not trusting another word.

“All the same.” Something was placed on the bed by his feet. “I always thought this was a little too much. Goodbye, Crawley.”

The rustle of the willow mat. And then silence.

Crawley turned just enough to see the bright white scarf, folded carefully beside him.

He snatched it up, burrowing deeper into the furs. The scarf was still filled with of the wonderful, indescribable, pure scent of Aziraphale.

And soon, with Crawley’s tears.

–-

As Aziraphale walked away from the roundhouse, dressed in the rich outfit Crawley had given him, he felt stronger – and weaker – than he ever had before.

His tears fell on the ground, freezing to ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [to my Tumblr!](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189804077102/recovery)
> 
> Thank you for reading. I didn't intend for this to be anywhere near as long - or as sad - as it became.
> 
> Historical notes:  
> \- There are no written records related to Great Britain going this far back; Pritani (for the island, or possibly the people) and Alba (for the northern parts, Scotland) were the oldest place names I could find.  
> \- Halicarnassos: A Greek-speaking city on the Mediterranean coast of modern-day Turkey.  
> \- Celtic: Today, we primarily associate the Celts with Ireland and, by extension, Wales and Scotland - all the pre-Anglo-Saxon parts of Britain. However, Celtic tribes historically lived just about everywhere on the continent. "Celtic lands" would be fantastically useless as a designation, but fits into the Greek habit of grouping lands and peoples based on the language, not the geography.  
> \- Thracians, Illyrians and Dacians are groups of people that lived around the Black and Adriatic Seas, not far from Modern Greece (Bulgaria, Macedonia, Yugoslavia, etc). Though Celtic tribes lived in these areas, these three are actually the names of the non-Celtic speaking peoples who would be in the majority in those regions. I chose them because they're more recognizable than, say, the Latobici, but it also shows Aziraphale is not as experienced with these people as he claims.  
> \- Iberia/Lusitani: Celts also lived all over the Iberian Peninsula (Spain and Portugal). The Lusitani were some of the furthest West, in modern-day Portugal.  
> \- Gauls: Celtic tribes primarily settled in modern-day France  
> \- Belgae: Celtic tribes settled in modern-day Belgium and also the very south of modern-day Britain  
> \- Votadini and Picts: The Votadini were the furthest north tribe I could find identified as securely Celtic, though they may not have existed this far back. It is unclear if the Picts of Scotland were Celtic or not, as they had their own culture and tradition, but they would have mixed freely in those days. Being on the boundary between the two puts our angel and demon very close to modern Edinburgh.  
> \- Fibulae are long, straight pins used in Greece and Rome to hold together various types of outfit, much like an oversized safety pin in appearance. Penannular brooches were more Celtic, circular pins. The one Crawley offers is very similar to the one we see him wear in Rome.  
> \- Aziraphale's poem: This is the Alexander Pope translation of the Iliad. It's not the most accurate, but since our angel was focusing on the rhythm of the words, I needed one with a strong meter (the translation is iambic pentameter, the original Greek is dactylic hexameter).  
> \- Ephesus is another Greek city in modern Turkey, Neapolis one in modern Italy (Naples). Neither is actually south of Halicarnassos, but I was trying to think of places Aziraphale might like to visit.  
> \- Some Scandanavian birds winter in Scotland. I don't know what they're thinking, either.  
> \- Celts vs Civilization: Too much to go into in the limited character range, but ask any Celtophile for details!  
> \- Reindeer did live in Scotland until the last few centuries, when air pollution killed off too much of the lichens they graze on. One herd was reintroduced in the 1960s, and lives in the mountains a bit further north than where Crowley and Aziraphale are.  
> \- Tartan did not exist yet in the 6th century BC, clan tartans not until the 16th CE. Aziraphale is very fashion-forward.  
> \- Cheese rolling is actually from Cooper's Hill in Gloucestershire, much further south. But who's to say where it started?  
> \- Triskele: triple-spiral pattern, actually a pre-Celtic symbol found throughout Europe.  
> \- Aziraphale's new poem in Sappho's Hymn to Aphrodite, the only complete work of Sappho to survive.
> 
> Apart from the tartan, Aziraphale's Celtic outfit and ornamentation are as accurate as I could manage.


	16. Ectotherm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London, After the Apocalypse. Aziraphale and Crowley begin their new life on Our Side, but soon find that not everything is well - no matter what, Crowley can't get warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22 - Warmth

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

In twenty-four hours he had been subjected to the inferno of a burning bookshop; the hell-born flames of the dread sigil Odegra enveloping his Bentley; the terrifying freezing-hot-burning-cold presence of Satan himself; and a column of Hellfire intended not for him but for Aziraphale, because the Archangels were determined to destroy the best thing that had ever walked the floor of Heaven.

Well, forget _them._

And so, they sat at the Ritz raising their glasses _to the world,_ ready to share a meal and start their life together.

Only Crowley suddenly realized he couldn’t eat. He’d thought he was hungry, but the food just sat in his stomach, heavy and cold. Even the wine seemed to sour, once it was past his tongue.

 _Just nerves,_ he thought, and did it really matter? He’d always preferred to watch Aziraphale eat, see the joy bubble across his features. It was enough to know that they could do this every day for eternity if they wished, and right now he certainly wished it.

He felt a little better when the coffee arrived, almost-painful heat radiating out from his stomach.

“My dear fellow, that’s your fourth cup!” Aziraphale protested, as he downed another.

“It’s good! And I didn’t complain when you ordered a second piece of cake.”

“Well, I…I was rather thinking you might like some, too.”

With a rush of giddy emotions, Crowley realized he liked the sound of that very much. He picked up his fork and sliced off a bite of red cake with thick white icing. “What is it?”

“I thought I’d try something different, something a little modern. This is red velvet cake.”

Only Aziraphale would think a flavor that had been popular for over sixty years was _a little modern._ Crowley smiled as he tasted it – rich and sweet and strangely light on his tongue. “You know, it’s not bad,” he said, reaching for another bite.

And a little heat rose to his face as he realized that Aziraphale was sitting there with hands folded, smile on his face – watching _Crowley_ eat.

-–

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

They went for a walk after the Ritz, but he found he was very tired. He tried to shrug it off.

“I’ve had a busy week, and I missed my sleeping day,” he explained. “I don’t – I don’t _need_ to sleep, you know, but I still get exhausted. I’ll be fine.”

“You should sleep, then,” Aziraphale said, tone slightly scolding. The angel seemed determined to make sure Crowley _took care of himself,_ as if he hadn’t learned to do that long before the Garden. It turned out, being fussed over wasn’t so bad. “I can walk you back to your place. Or. Er. You can come to the bookshop. I don’t have much to offer, but there’s the sofa, and perhaps we can have a drink…”

“Bookshop sounds lovely.” He always had to fight back a smile when he remembered the many nights they’d sat in the back corner together, sharing wine, sharing stories, complaining about work, just being themselves. Actually, he didn’t have to fight back that smile at all anymore – he could wear it for anyone to see. For Aziraphale to see.

None of that today, though. Crowley was rather embarrassed to find that the moment he stretched out on the sofa, he started falling asleep, and there was nothing he could do to fight it off.

He was dead to the world before Aziraphale had even settled into his armchair, and didn’t wake up until the shop was filled with bright Monday sunlight. A fleecy tartan blanket covered him from shoulder to toe, but he still shivered, and his stomach felt strangely heavy. Too much cake, probably.

Crowley sat up stiffly, running a hand through his hair and blinking around the shop. His eyes landed on a customer, who jumped in surprise, then quickly walked out.

“Ah, you’re awake!” Aziraphale hurried over. “How are you feeling? Better, I trust?”

“A bit.” Crowley rubbed at his face. “Didn’t I have glasses?”

“You took them off before falling asleep.” Aziraphale pulled them out of his pocket. “I was worried you might roll over them in the night. You slept very heavily. Is that normal?”

He shrugged, pushing the dark lenses back onto his face. “Probably. Didn’t wake up, didn’t dream much, seems like a good sleep. Does it have to be so blasted cold, though?”

Aziraphale glanced at the old-fashioned thermostat. “I do keep it a little cool to discourage customers. You scared away three different people just by sleeping there, you know. Perhaps I should get you a permanent bed right in the middle of the floor.”

“Only if you promise to turn the heat up.” Crowley wandered closer to the window, feeling the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. That was better. “I’m…” It wasn’t a word he used often. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

“About the customers? Don’t be, they were trying to touch my first edition Verne novels and I was running out of ways to be inconspicuously rude.”

“No about…falling asleep. I know you had…” Plans? Expectations? They’d never really talked about what _Our Side_ would mean. “…you had _hopes,_ for our first day, you know, free.”

“And every one of them is being fulfilled right now,” Aziraphale said, with such sincerity that Crowley started to smile. “Ah, I lied. _Now_ all of them are being fulfilled.” He took Crowley’s hands in his. “Just standing here, talking to you, not worrying about who might see us, it’s more than I ever thought would be possible. I am perfectly content as we are.” He frowned suddenly. “Except that your hands are _freezing.”_

Crowley laughed as Aziraphale wrapped his hands around the demon’s, rubbing them, trying to warm them up. It certainly did make him feel better, and not just because his fingers had been a little numb from the way he’d slept.

“I was actually worried…” Aziraphale started again, still staring at their hands. “Oh, I assume you have your own, er, _hopes._ Since you’ve been thinking about this so much longer than I. We should probably discuss that, but, well, just to warn you, I haven’t thought much about…that is, I’m not sure that I want…ohhh…”

Crowley lifted one hand to tilt Aziraphale’s face up, to look into his eyes. The heat of it was almost unbearable. “I haven’t really thought about it either,” he confessed. “Never thought we’d make it this far. Everything from this point on is just a pleasant surprise.” With his other hand, he squeezed the angel’s fingers gently. “I don’t think I’d say no to more of this, though.”

Aziraphale blushed, the heat of it rushing to fill every space inside Crowley, and his eyes dropped briefly. “Your hand is still freezing,” he finally said, pulling away with a smile. He bustled across the shop to pick up his coat. “I know, let’s go for a walk. It’s a nice, warm day. We can feed the ducks in St. James’s Park…No. Let’s do something different. Something daring.” There was a wild gleam in his eyes as he turned back. “Let’s feed the ducks in _Regent’s Park.”_

It was indeed a gloriously warm day, and they spent over five hours exploring every path in London’s third-largest park while a small sign sat in the bookshop window reading _Out to Lunch – Back in a Jiffy._

Every once in a while, Aziraphale’s hot hand found its way into Crowley’s cold one. Again and again, until it felt completely natural.

–-

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

It had been three weeks since the world had ended and begun again, everything _ticking along nicely_ as Aziraphale liked to stay. Crowley caught himself thinking more like Aziraphale these days, which was both worrying and wonderful.

Except that any time Crowley was indoors, he felt lethargic, cold, a little cranky. Aziraphale had miracled up a thick scarf in grey tartan. It was hideous and embarrassing and he wore it all the time even though it didn’t really help. He knew what the tartan gifts meant.

He took more hot baths than he ever had in his life, including the years he’d spent _living in Bath._ He soaked until he felt lightheaded, feverish even, and bundled himself up to try and trap in the heat.

Yet still, an hour later, he huddled in his seat, shivering, unable to concentrate on a game of chess, or even draughts.

"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" Aziraphale asked as Crowley moved his black piece forward.

"Stop asking me that. I _know_ how to play this, I've been beating you for _centuries."_ He glared at the angel sitting comfortably in his armchair.

Two weeks ago, Aziraphale had summoned his favorite seat into Crowley's study, across the desk from _that ridiculous throne._ Despite his complaints, at the time he'd welcomed the idea of the angel being as comfortable in his space as Crowley was in the bookshop. Of sharing all those idle moments as he had dreamed for so long. Of finally opening his life enough to make room for the other being that mattered.

Now, he couldn't help thinking how awful the chair looked, how it clashed with his decor, with his whole flat, how much he hated the way Aziraphale smirked as he picked up one red piece and, _there he goes again,_ captured every single one of Crowley's in a rapid series of jumps.

Really should have seen that coming.

"Well, my dear," Aziraphale folded his hands. "Shall we try for best seven out thirteen, or should we switch to something more your speed? Naughts and Crosses, perhaps?"

With a sweep of his arm, Crowley knocked the board and pieces off the desk, scattering them across the floor.

"Crowley!"

The demon didn't respond. He didn't have the _energy_ to respond - every muscle in his body screamed to just stretch out and rest.

He walked into the next room, where the heat lamps over the plants kept the air at nearly 40 degrees. All but the most tropical had already withered, and even the few remaining trembled at his approach, knowing they weren't up to his exacting standards. But he wasn't here to berate them, just to try and soak in some of the _heat._

"Crowley? My dear, are you quite alright?"

He leaned against the counter, trying to will his shoulders to relax, his stomach to unknot, his brain to start functioning again. He didn't even notice Aziraphale's approach, until the too-hot hand landed on his shoulder.

"DON'T!" Without thinking, Crowley spun, shoving the angel away with all his strength. "Don't _touch_ me, don't come _near_ me, don't even _speak_ to me, you _arrogant sod!"_

Then he tore off the tartan scarf and threw it into the corner.

Over 6,000 years, Crowley and Aziraphale had had many fights.

The everyday ones, the endless bickering and teasing, they both knew never to take to heart.

The truly fierce ones, a request for Holy Water, and a plan to run away - these had nearly shattered them, yet they'd still understood, on some level, that each wanted what was best.

The argument that night was like nothing they'd ever experienced. All the bitter pettiness of their daily arguments, but with every ounce of ferocity Crowley could muster.

Later, as he lay on the ceiling, shivering in the heat, Crowley replayed every word, crystal clear in his mind, hoping that at least the burn of his shame could warm him up.

It wasn't anger. It was lashing out.

Crowley was afraid. Something was wrong, and he didn't know what.

\--

Crowley couldn't get warm.

He tried wearing more layers.

He tried wearing fewer layers.

Eating hot food.

Lying under a tree.

Lying in direct sunlight.

Finally, there was only one conclusion he could reach.

“I’m cold-blooded.”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far,” Aziraphale sniffed. His ego was still somewhat bruised from their argument, but he was clearly _making an effort._

They sat facing each other across the café table, opposite sides. Aziraphale had ordered a slice of warm pie with ice cream melting down the sides. A second fork sat, waiting for Crowley, and the angel kept giving it significant looks, but the demon wouldn’t unwrap his hands from the enormous cup of coffee he’d ordered, the largest they served.

Aziraphale sighed and folded his hands. “Crowley, dear. I know the… _transition_ to our new life hasn’t been as smooth as we hoped, and we’ve both said things we regret, but I’ve never felt that you were –”

“No, Aziraphale.” He took a sip of coffee. It was something American-style, hot and bitter and lacking any particular flavor. He didn’t care. He just needed absurd quantities of near-boiling liquid. “I mean it literally. Somehow, after the Apocalypse, I became cold-blooded. I can’t get warm no matter what I do.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, as if waiting for the punchline of an unfunny joke. “That’s simply impossible. How many times have you told me off for making those assumptions, just because you used to be a snake? You have a mammal body, and it does…mammal things,” he waved his hands to indicate that he still wasn’t completely caught up on modern science classifications, “including being warm…”

He trailed off as Crowley reached across the table, taking his hand. Even after being wrapped around the hot ceramic mug, it still wouldn’t feel right. “What are you always saying these days?”

“That your hands are freezing.” Aziraphale shook his head. “It can’t be true. That’s not proof…”

Crowley gestured to the plate. “I can’t eat because my stomach is too cold to work. When I do eat, I have to lay down because any extra movement takes away energy I need for digestion.” He tugged at the tartan scarf, back around his neck where it belonged. “Extra layers don’t help, because they just insulate me from the warm air. Blankets don’t help because I’m not creating enough heat on my own. Even turning up the thermostat doesn’t help because this blessed body is made to _shed_ heat, not retain it.” He stared into his mug of coffee. “I can’t move when I’m cold. I can’t move when I’m hot. Sunlight helps for a little while, but the days are getting shorter.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, knowing what he was about to say would make the angel pull away, wishing it wasn't true. “I…I don’t think I like being _touched_ anymore.”

He didn’t fight it when the hand vanished, taking its warmth with it. Crowley just slumped, closing his eyes in defeat.

The squeal of chair legs against hard floor made him glance up. Aziraphale had moved to sit beside him, pulling his chair as close as he could.

Carefully, Crowley leaned his head to the side, resting it on Aziraphale’s shoulder, letting their bodies press together. It was easier this way, a sort of passive contact, unrestrained, letting the heat flow between them.

“Are you…” He could hear the way the breath caught in Aziraphale’s throat. “You seem so certain. Is there any chance you’re wrong? Any other explanation?”

Crowley gently shook his head, letting it wobble back and forth on the angel’s shoulder. “This is how it felt when I was a snake. You don’t forget something like that.”

“At least now you know. Surely what you learned from being a snake can help you navigate…”

“I looked it up,” Crowley muttered. “A snake can handle a range of fifteen, twenty degrees easily. Human body…a little more than _one_ degree. At 35 I’m freezing to death, at 38 I’m burning up from the inside. I don’t even know how I’ve lasted this long.” He pressed himself even closer into Aziraphale’s side. Half of him was still cold, even as his shoulder and his thigh screamed in the heat. It wouldn’t _balance_ properly. “It’s going to kill me.”

He felt the tension all through Aziraphale’s body. “Crowley, no!”

“Fine, it’s going to get me discorporated, and I’ll wake up in Hell, and _they’ll_ kill me.”

“There must be _something_ we can do.”

“Maybe. It’s getting harder to concentrate every day.”

“Then I’ll look for a solution.” He offered his hand and Crowley grabbed it, grateful for the almost-too-hot touch. “I might as well, since I’m responsible.”

“What are you talking about, Angel?”

“Your body was fine, then I used it and…it must be something I did.”

“Don’t say that.” He pulled away enough to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “This isn’t your fault. I agreed to switch bodies, I knew there was some risk. And I don’t think you could have caused this. Somehow this is Heaven or Hell, still interfering with our lives.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, nodding. Crowley wasn’t sure if he really believed it or not. “Still. If this was done to you, there must be some way to undo it. And if there’s a way, I will find it.” He swallowed, turning to look at their linked hands. “But, in the meantime…It’s probably best if you turn back into a snake.”

 _“No!”_ Crowley all but shouted, anger mixing with fear. “No, Aziraphale I won’t. That’s not who I am anymore.”

“Isn’t it better than _dying?”_

He clenched his jaw, biting back his reply. He honestly wasn’t sure it _was._ An eternity as a serpent, no driving, no music, no wines, no gardening, no feeding ducks, no holding hands…

Crowley twined his fingers through Aziraphale’s, lifting up the hand clasp between them. “I fought…We fought…so long for _this._ I can’t just…I won’t give this up. I won’t, Angel.”

“You’re not giving anything up,” Aziraphale insisted. He brushed his lips across Crowley’s fingers and, oh, add something else to the list of things he wasn’t willing to lose. “I will still be here. My feelings for you won’t change at all.”

“They’ll probably change a little,” Crowley pointed out.

“I want to spend every day with you, talk with you, see you happy. And it doesn’t matter if you’re scaled or human or turn into a fish, that’s not going to change.”

“I won’t be happy.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But please. Give me the time I need to save you.”

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale, letting the angel do the same back, even though part of his mind screamed and squirmed to escape the heat of contact. He told himself this wouldn’t be the last time.

–-

Crowley was warm.

He stretched out in his favorite basking spot by the window, feeling the winter sunlight play across his scales, heating him up. Oh, there were heat lamps tucked in the corners for when he needed them, but nothing beat the feel of real sunlight.

Every now and again, the door would open, a customer hoping to browse for a Christmas gift. The rumble of footsteps through his belly woke him, and he reared up his head, tongue flicking out to catch the scent of the blurry shape by the entryway.

Almost every time, the visitor took one look at the enormous red-bellied black snake and vanished soon after.

The hours ticked by, slow and sweet, like drops of honey. Crowley was aware that he should be filling them with fast-paced reckless activities of some form, but he couldn’t quite recall what…just a general sense of dissatisfaction.

Still, whatever he had lost, the best was still here.

When he’d drunk his fill of warmth, he twisted his way through the shop, sliding around stacks of books and potted plants (hissing at the ones that didn’t seem to be growing well enough). There, at the desk, sat the angel.

Aziraphale was rarely anywhere else these days. Bent over old grimoires, reading glasses balanced on his nose, pile of notes beside him. He hadn’t glanced up for any of the customers. Three cups full of cold tea sat beside him. He hadn’t even risen to get a new one in a while.

A pair of folded-up sunglasses sat in one corner of the desk. He never picked them up, but sometimes touched them as he worked.

Crowley twisted around his leg, climbing, finding his way along the chair and across the shoulders until he was draped across Aziraphale, watching him work.

“Hello, my dear. How was your day?”

Crowley hissed dismissively. One day was the same as another for a snake. “Progressss?”

“I’m close. I really think I’m close.” His voice was just a rumble, rising from his chest through Crowley’s belly, distorted, missing half the notes. He couldn’t pick up on the nuance, couldn’t tell if it was a lie or not. Just like he couldn’t see all of Aziraphale’s face at once, just the jaw, the little smile, the rest curving away in the distance.

“Ssssupper,” Crowley reminded him. The angel needed lots of reminders.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I really want to keep at this a bit longer.”

“Resssst.”

He held up his hands before him, letting Crowley slither from one to the next without trying to grasp. There was something about _hands,_ something important. It was just on the edge of his memory, but snakes don’t have hands. It slipped away.

“No, I can’t rest yet. Not until…no.”

“Pleassssssse.”

“I can take a small break, but no dinner. I’m not hungry, anyway.”

When Crowley was coiled back around his shoulders, Aziraphale stood up, walking across to the little secluded corner of the shop. This was another important area, though Crowley couldn’t exactly remember why. He thought it involved a lot of sitting, drinking…water? Not water. He forgot what he used to drink.

The angel fiddled with his collection of round discs. “How about some Vivaldi, since it’s almost Christmas? You always liked his Seasons.” Crowley nodded.

He couldn’t really hear the music. Noises on the air meant nothing to a snake.

But once Aziraphale was stretched out on the sofa, Crowley made himself comfortable on his chest, and felt the deep thrum of the music as the angel sang along.

Warmth rose from Aziraphale, too, just like from the sun. It was a different kind of heat. Purer. Better.

Whatever else he had lost, Crowley still had that. And he was content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Sorry, another downer ending. I promise he'll be ok!
> 
> One more chapter to go, and then the epilogue to tie up loose ends. I'll try to get them posted tomorrow or some time this weekend.
> 
> Originally posted [to my Tumblr.](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189812942347/ectotherm)
> 
> Notes for Americans: Draughts is checkers, and Naughts and Crosses is Tic-Tac-Toe. All temperatures are in Celsius, and I hope I have them accurate.
> 
> Snake notes: I am not a herpetologist (reptile/amphibian scientist) but my cousin is, and he provided some notes on snake behavior and biology, which I've used here and elsewhere in my writing, though my attempts to render ectothermic traits onto a warm-blooded body are entirely my own.
> 
> Some fans like to HC Crowley as cold-blooded in all his forms, which is fine, but it certainly means more than just "he's a little chilly when it's cold out"! I have a full list for if I ever want to do a cold-blooded-Crowley story, but not all of them made it into this one. Relevant points include:  
> \- Ectotherms need to bask to get their heat up to a comfortable temperature before any major activity  
> \- Digesting food is a long, slow process. Snakes prefer to rest somewhere warm and safe while this happens  
> \- Bundling up can help retain heat (snake sweaters!) but only if the snake is already hot to begin with  
> \- Snakes can only actually be safely away from their heat lamps for half an hour or so (depending on ambient temperature)  
> \- Torpor is a sort of involuntary state of reduced metabolism that ectotherms enter when it gets too cold. Various other terms also apply, depending on how long the period is, and how intense the cold, but keep in mind - INVOLUNTARY.  
> \- Snakes do not like to be touched, handled or contained. Snakes are just not comfortable with physical contact the way mammals are, though they will tolerate it if you stay within the right boundaries  
> \- Do not startle a snake.


	17. Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through various points in history, Aziraphale and Crowley have never felt safe to say how they feel.
> 
> After the Apocalypse, Crowley seeks out the one being who may be able to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18 – Cookies  
> 23 – Ghosts  
> 24 – Holiday Card

**1\. The Ghost of Christmas Past**

The world had ended, the world had been reborn, and four months later Aziraphale was decorating the shop for Christmas.

It was a favorite ritual of his, not something to be accomplished with a mere snap of the fingers. Each garland unpacked, unwound, tacked up in its appropriate spot. Holly in the window. Electric candles on the tables.

Crowley sprawled on the couch, tapping at his phone. His black glasses had slid far enough down his nose that every once in a while the angel could see golden eyes flick in his direction, like twin suns peeking out from behind storm clouds.

“You could help,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“What, swap out your usual kitchy angels for other, slightly kitchier ones? No thank you.”

“Come now, Crowley, show a _little_ holiday spirit.”

“Why?” He nudged his toe against some tinsel that had gotten too close. “What’s the point of any of this, anyway?”

“It makes the shop feel like a home.”

Golden eyes on him again, reflecting the light of the phone. “Feel like?”

“Well, yes, this _is_ my home, but…oh, never mind.” He placed a Christmas card on the mantel.

His only Christmas card. He’d bought it for himself in 1972.

There was a little cottage on the front, white with a red door, nestled among towering evergreen trees. The sky was the deep purple of night just before the first stars came out, with a hint of orange at the horizon. Snow piled on everything, reflecting a golden glow from the windows. A little red bird perched in one tree, near the grey smoke of the chimney. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He turned back to Crowley, but those eyes were lost on the phone again. He let the words he really wanted to say slip away. It wasn’t the time.

It was never the time.

\--

One thousand, nine-hundred eighty-one years before the world ended, an angel and a demon walked out of a restaurant in Rome, having eaten their fill of oysters.

“You know what, that was better than I expected,” Crowley admitted.

“I would never have imagined you afraid to try something new.” Aziraphale was still feeling rather bold. It had been that sort of day. Not the sort of day he had very often. He didn’t hate it at all.

Crowley shot him an exaggerated sideways glare. It was hard to see his expression with those strange black lenses, but he’d started being extra dramatic to compensate. “Well, I still say it’s a strange way to eat food.”

“I suppose they _could_ remove them from the shell first, but presentation is part of the experience.”

“Ah, the _experience._ I didn’t know we were going for an _experience,_ I thought it was about the _food.”_

“I really wish you would learn to appreciate the finer things in life.”

“Like you?”

Aziraphale froze.

The words hovered between them.

The wonderful thing about Latin was its lack of ambiguity. _Appreciate finer things like you do_ and _Appreciate finer things such as you_ were distinct phrases, and could not be confused.

Crowley, not used to the language, had said more than he intended.

It was suddenly very difficult for Aziraphale to breathe. “Pardon? Could you repeat that?” It was nothing, barely a complement, except that it echoed something inside him, something he hadn’t quite been able to express, something that had been building since the moment he heard Crowley’s voice in the crowded thermopolium. Since he had wandered over to tempt a demon.

He wished very much that he could see Crowley’s eyes.

“I said…”

Hope warred with fear deep in his stomach. Fear of rejection. Fear of acceptance.

Fear that one of the Archangels would arrive at that moment, taking Crowley away from him forever.

“Wait. Bloody declining pronouns. What did I even say?” Crowley scowled. “I meant, appreciate things like you do? Not likely. You enjoy everything far too much. It’s embarrassing.”

It hurt. But in a way, it was a relief.

They parted ways soon after.

\--

Five hundred fifty-six years before the world ended, an angel and a demon sat in a tavern discussing an Arrangement.

There had never been a formal agreement. It had been built in pieces across centuries: a little more sharing information, a little less attention to the other’s activities. Writing reports together to help each other sound good for Head Office. Then came the coin tosses, the _only one of us needs to go,_ the Temptations. The knowledge that, no, it really didn’t feel any worse to do demonic work for a day.

The thrill of seeing the other afterwards to compare notes.

Aziraphale protested every time. He _shouldn’t_ do this. Worse, _Crowley_ shouldn’t do this. How much trouble could a demon get in for performing a blessing? It didn’t bear thinking about.

But things were happening in Italy these days, and they were both being sent to have an influence. No point in working at cross-purposes for months and years.

So they bent over a table in a dim tavern, studying a rough sketch of the Italian Peninsula that Crowley had drawn from memory.

“I don’t know how we’re going to keep out of each other’s way that summer. We’ll both be in the north at the same time, probably working on the same families.”

“We could divide it by city? Each take a few, do all the tempting and blessing and whatever.” Crowley took a drink of beer, frowning at the taste. “You think the wine’s still good over there?”

“Undoubtedly.” He smiled a little, remembering the jug of wine Crowley had brought back from his last trip to France, shared on a walk through the countryside when Aziraphale had had enough of the city air.

Crowley nodded, seeming nervous. His newest lenses blocked more of his eyes than ever. “You go first, then.”

Aziraphale studied the map. “I suppose…I can take Milan, Brescia and Verona.”

“Leaving me…Bologna, Padua and Treviso. No, that won’t work. Bologna’s too far. I should take Verona.”

“Bologna’s too far for me as well. I suppose we could ignore it. Not as many orders compared to the others.”

“I mean, as long as we’re ignoring things, why not take the summer off and go to Venice?”

Aziraphale sat up, studying him. It was said in a joking tone, with that too-smart-for-my-own-good smirk, but it didn’t sound like a joke at all.

The angel let himself imagine it, just for a moment. Lying back in a gondola as Crowley steered them down a canal. Strolling across the bridges in the evening under the stars. All the new buildings, hovering over the water, limestone gleaming. The basilica was supposed to be an absolute delight, not that Crowley could enjoy that. And from there a day’s carriage ride to Florence. More than a day if they should happen to get lost in the hills of Tuscany…

The slam of mugs at the next table snapped him out of his reverie.

They both flinched, eyes darting, Crowley already half-rising from the bench.

They were being careless. Foolish.

“Deal’s off,” Crowley snapped, snatching the map from the table.

“Of course. I don’t know what you were thinking, suggesting any of this.”

“Wasn’t my idea to come here. Awful meeting place. Awful idea to meet at all.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, brushing himself off as he stood. “We can send messages in Italy, to make sure we aren’t in the same city at the same time. Seems the most logical solution. No interaction, no interference.”

“Keep out of each other’s way.”

They each nodded, and hurried out the tavern by different doors.

\--

One hundred fifty-nine years before the world ended, an angel bent over his desk, studying the damage to the spine of a book.

“You could just miracle it whole again,” Crowley reminded him, leaning over his shoulder.

“I don’t miracle my books,” Aziraphale told him sternly. He picked up a knife and began to cut the cover and spine free of the sewn pages. He should be able to re-stitch the pages, repair the tears to the cover, and put everything back as it was.

Aziraphale was getting quite good at this.

“I don’t see why not. You miracle just about everything else.”

“Well, sometimes I like to do things by hand. Is that so wrong?” His tone was sharper than he intended. Aziraphale took a deep breath. This was a delicate procedure, and he needed to remain calm. “It feels…more _real_ when I do it by hand.”

“You’re an angel. It’s real either way.”

“I don’t know how to explain it, Crowley. Do you miracle your plants?”

“Don’t need to. Not if they know what’s good for them.” Aziraphale could _hear_ the smirk in his voice.

Then, all at once, Crowley was leaning even closer, so close the buttons of his waistcoat pressed into the shoulder of Aziraphale’s jacket, the heat of his face hovered so near to Aziraphale’s – as he leaned down to touch the book, inspect the pages. “How did this one become so bashed up, anyway?”

Aziraphale sat very, very still, not even trusting himself to move the knife away from the binding, in case his hand slipped and caused irreparable damage. “It was. Ah. Dropped.”

If he turned his head, he could see – Crowley’s face, long and narrow; Crowley’s mouth pressed in that perpetual grimace; Crowley’s eyes, now completely hidden by those strange spectacles. Sometimes it seemed as if the demon were completely withdrawing, hiding even from Aziraphale.

Other times…

Crowley turned just enough so that Aziraphale could see the edge of his smile. He never smiled anymore; it was such a _gift_ to see one now. “I see now why you don’t like your customers to pick them up at all. Who did this, though? A toddler?”

“No.” Aziraphale swallowed. “It was…Gabriel.”

Crowley sprang away as if he’d been burned. They both turned to look at the door, waiting, half expecting the Archangel to arrive at any second. But the shop continued to sit, silent, empty, now filled with seething tension.

“That wanker,” Crowley hissed.

“Don’t speak that way about –”

“I’ll speak whatever way I want.” Crowley circled the desk, coming to stand between Aziraphale and the door. “You let him come in here and – and do whatever he wants?”

“He’s my direct superior, Crowley, I hardly have any say in such matters.”

“You don’t? Even here? Is this your shop or his?”

“Crowley!” But even as Aziraphale leapt to his feet, his eyes fell on the book – somehow, the knife had slipped more than once, and the cover was now in tatters. “Now look! I’ll never be able to repair this!”

“You shouldn’t have to!”

“Don’t pretend you’re any different!” Aziraphale braced his hands on the desk, glaring into those inscrutable black lenses. “You simper and you bow to your superiors. You let them say or do as they like. Because in the end, that’s the only way it can be. That is who we are.”

He held that gaze for as long as he could, then sighed. “You should go.”

Gabriel never visited twice in the same day. If anything, this was the _safest_ time for Crowley to be here. But it didn’t feel that way at all.

After the demon had stormed out, Aziraphale looked at the book he’d tried to repair by hand. Like humans do. With a snap of his fingers, he miracled it whole and stuffed it back onto a shelf.

It was a foolish fantasy anyway.

\--

Forty-seven years before the world ended, Aziraphale bought himself a Christmas card. He saw it in a shop, and he liked it. A cottage nestled in the trees.

“I don’t know why you like it. You’d never be happy that far from the city.”

“There was a time I thought I’d never be happy _in_ the city.”

“What’s so special about that cottage, anyway?”

Aziraphale stared at it, memorizing he patterns of light on the snow. “Whoever lives there is having a lovely Christmas, with whoever they like best. They’re warm, they’re safe. They’re home.”

“It’s just a drawing,” Crowley turned away dismissively. “It isn’t a real place.”

“I know. It can never be real. But perhaps I like to imagine.”

\--

Four months after the world ended, Aziraphale set the card on his mantel for the forty-seventh time, and tried to picture what it would look like inside.

“You know, you’re supposed to get new cards every year,” Crowley pointed out. “People are supposed to send them to you.”

“I like this one.” With a smile, Aziraphale went to stand beside the sofa, rest his hand on the back. “And who would send me a Christmas card, anyway?”

“I could.” Crowley shifted his weight, so his shoulder rested just there, brushing against Aziraphale’s fingers. He tipped his head back, golden eyes searching over the tops of black glasses. “Angel. I –”

The door of the shop burst open.

Crowley was on his feet in a second, tense, ready for a fight. Aziraphale stood behind him, bracing himself on the sofa, ready to jump over it, pull Crowley behind it, throw it, throw himself at whoever threatened them –

Two young children ran in, far too noisy and boisterous for this sort of shop, followed by exhausted parents.

Not a threat. Just customers.

Aziraphale tried to force himself to relax. He could see that Crowley was struggling with it, too, shoving his glasses back in place. Taking a breath, Aziraphale walked over to hover around his visitors.

When he looked back, Crowley had already slipped away.

It was only hours later that he realized the Christmas card was missing.

* * *

**2\. The Ghost of Christmas Present**

Mr. Young frowned at the telephone. “You want to speak to my son?”

“Yeeaaaah,” said the voice of the man on the other end of the line. “Your son. The curly one. Wossname. Adam.”

“What, precisely, is this about? If he’s in some sort of trouble…”

“Trouble? Oh, no. No, no, no. I’m, ah, I’m one of his teachers. At the school. You know. The school he goes to?”

Mr. Young was, to the best of his ability, a responsible parent, and that included attending all parent-teacher nights. He was fairly certain that the voice on the other end of the phone did _not_ belong to any of the serious, studious, by-the-book instructors he had met, this year or any other. “And what, precisely, is it you teach, Mr…?”

“Crowley. Mr. Anthony Crowley. I teach, er, Arts and Crafts? That’s a subject.” Mr. Young took a deep breath to tell this clearly insane man what he thought. “By the way, this is all perfectly normal and you shouldn’t question it.”

It occurred to Mr. Young that this was all perfectly normal and he shouldn’t question it.

“That’s alright, then. Adam’s just up in his room doing homework. I’ll get him.”

\--

Crowley paced across his office, occasionally touching a sculpture, the desk, the side of the chair, not resting anywhere for more than a few seconds.

“What did you do to my dad?” The child’s voice demanded without preamble.

“What? Nothing. Just. Made him stop asking questions.” Crowley winced. Even to him, it didn’t sound like nothing. “It’s fine, it’ll only last a few more minutes. You can tell him whatever you want about this conversation.” That might just make things worse, of course.

“You shouldn’t be doing things like that. It isn’t right.”

“I know, I just –” He hadn’t made this call to get a lecture in morality from an eleven-year-old _kid._ “Look, that’s not important.”

“I think it is. What do you want?”

“Look, it’s alright. I’m…” Crowley rubbed at his head trying to think where to begin. “We weren’t actually properly introduced, I think. Er. There was a lot going on.”

“I know who you are. I know all about _you.”_

“Oh. Well. That makes things simpler.”

“I thought I told you I didn’t want to hear from your lot ever again.” He was starting to sound angry. That could be very bad.

“Look, I promise, I’m not calling on behalf of – they aren’t _my lot_ anymore. I just…” He looked down at the Christmas card. “I need your help.”

\--

It took almost three hours to drive from Tadfield to the South Downs, all along the coast, and back inland to the long v-shaped valley. It would have been faster, but he had to drive considerably slower than usual, because of the passengers.

“Actually,” said the skinny one with glasses for about the hundredth time, “it would have saved at least an hour if you took the M25.”

“Well, I don’t take the M25 anymore, so you got the scenic route.”

“I’ve never rode in a car without seatbelts before,” piped in the one who had somehow gotten filthy _while riding in the Bentley._ “That was brilliant.”

The dog barked in agreement, running back and forth between the two windows, scrambling across three sets of legs.

“Actually,” Glasses started in again. “I’m fairly certain it’s illegal.”

“We should make a list,” the girl said, scratching the dog’s ears. “In case we have to sue for damages later.” Glasses was already pulling out a notebook.

“Did we really have to bring along your…entourage?” Crowley asked, shooting a look at the seat next to him.

Adam scowled. He scowled more than Crowley did, which was already a lot. “I don’t go anywhere without my friends.”

It wasn’t his seat. But Crowley figured, if anyone was allowed to sit in Aziraphale’s spot, it was the Antichrist.

The Former Antichrist?

The Possibly-Still-Antichrist.

“Well, we’re here.” He stopped the Bentley and looked out across the rolling hills. “Are you sure this is right?”

Adam just nodded and climbed out, the other three – plus the dog – tumbling from the back seat after him.

“There isn’t nearly enough trees,” pointed out the girl, who was obviously very observant. Crowley liked her a little more than the rest.

“We’ll find them,” Adam said with what Crowley felt was entirely undeserved confidence. “Just up the trail and…to the right, I think.”

The other three children ran ahead, but Adam continued to walk by Crowley’s side, dog trotting obediently at his heels. It was a chilly December day, the ground damp from recent rain, a sharp breeze blowing down the valley.

After a few minutes, the demon felt something was expected of him.

“So…how do you know about this place? Did you, I don’t know, scry or something?”

Adam gave him a _look._ “I used Google.”

“I just thought…” Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked at a rock. “You knew all about me. And Aziraphale.”

“I used to know a lot more.” Adam frowned at his shoes as he slouched along. “Back in August. There was a lot in my head. Sometimes I can still remember it.”

“Yeah, I, uh, that must be hard.”

Adam shrugged and picked up a stick, throwing it as far as he could. The dog ran after it, tiny legs flying frantically, barking with excitement.

Even knowing what it was, Crowley couldn’t tell it had once been a Hellhound. The transformation was complete. Absolute. And utterly terrifying.

“Why did you call me?” Adam asked abruptly.

“I…” Crowley watched the dog pick up the stick. One of the kids – the filthy one, now covered head to toe in mud – grabbed the other end and tried to wrestle it away. “I hoped you could help me. With, you know, all your powers.”

“And what if I don’t have them anymore? What if I’m just a normal kid?”

Crowley shrugged. He’d considered that, of course. “Then there’s probably no one who can help me in an… _occult_ way, and I would need _human_ assistance. And you’re the most human person I know.”

The kid actually smiled a little. It was good to know he was capable of it. “I don’t think you know that many people.”

“I don’t. Still true.” The dog had successfully gotten the stick away from the human interloper and was trotting back. “But I’ve had some time to think it over. You wouldn’t have ridden three hours in that car if you didn’t think you could help me.”

“Maybe I just want to earn my fee.”

That had been the first thing, when Crowley had picked them up. Glasses had presented him with a _bill_ detailing their consulting rates. Twenty pounds each to start, plus seven pounds an hour, plus expenses. He’d insisted that _actually_ it was a very reasonable price.

“Well, if this works out, you’ll have earned a lot more.” He glanced over as the kid crouched down to rub his dog’s ears. “What do you get out of this? Apart from potentially a hundred pounds.”

“A hundred pounds is a lot,” Adam said evasively. After a moment he threw the stick again, dog racing off after it. “But. Well. I did want to talk to you.”

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. “If it’s about the airfield, you probably know as much as I do.”

“No. About…before.” Adam very carefully didn’t look at him. “My mum and dad are my family. I love them. But…I think I still want to know.” He finally turned to face Crowley, and his expression nearly broke the demon’s heart.

“I’m sorry, kid. I wish I could help you.” He thought back to that night, eleven years ago. “They handed me a basket, I gave it to a nun…that’s pretty much all I ever knew. And I don’t know if anyone else can tell you more.”

Adam shrugged as if it didn’t matter and slouched on.

“So,” Crowley tried again, when he felt the silence had lasted long enough. “Can you still do all that stuff or not?”

Adam gave him a calculating look. “What, like, create things out of nothing, control the weather, that sort of thing?”

“Sure. Could you make it warmer? It’s really not a nice day for a hike.”

“What would you do? If I told you?”

It was a fair question, and Crowley gave it the consideration it deserved. “I would know. And later, if it was important, I would remember.” He looked down at the kid, whose eyes were far too old. “I promise, I’m not going to interfere with your life. Not unless it’s very important.”

Adam nodded. “I can. But I don’t do that sort of stuff anymore.”

“What do you do?”

“I think.” He looked up at the sky, wind ruffling his hair. “About a lot of different things. Lately, I think about other universes.”

“Why?”

“In case it comes up.” The dog was still playing with the other three children. Crowley wondered if that was just chance, or to keep them from interrupting. “Some people think that every choice we make creates another universe. One where I decide to come with you, one where I stay at home. One where we have this conversation, one where we walk in silence. Maybe one where Rome never fell, or where there was never a Trojan Horse.”

“Well, there wasn’t a Trojan Horse. Trust me, I was there. Some idiot just left the gate open after his watch. And Rome was always going to fall, because it was run by men more interested in their next meal than keeping the roads intact.”

“Well, fine.” Adam gave him a look that was rather too penetrating. “Maybe a universe where you did say something nice after going for oysters. Or where you did take that trip to Venice. Or maybe one where you didn’t wait until _four months_ after the end of the world to tell him how you felt.”

“Hey. You – you don’t know anything about that.”

“I told you. I know all about you.”

“No, I mean, romance stuff. You’re only eleven. What does a kid know about that?”

Adam smirked. “Apparently more than a six-thousand-year-old demon.”

Crowley stopped walking. Adam took a few more steps before realizing he was alone, and turned back.

“No, you don’t.” The demon crossed his arms over the cold forming in the pit of his stomach. “You don’t know anything. You’ve been safe your entire life. Family that loves you, friends that listen to you, places to play that felt dangerous, but you knew you wouldn’t get hurt. Nothing could ever touch _you._ ”

The trembling started up in him again, as it had over and over these past four months. He tried to hold it in, hide it, the way he did around Aziraphale. Tried not to lash out like a wounded animal. Not just because the being he was talking to could unmake him with a thought, but because he was a child.

“Adam, you don’t know what it’s like to always be afraid, really afraid. Think of the most scared you ever were, when you thought the universe was going to take away your home and your world and your identity, and then picture feeling that way for _six thousand bloody years.”_

He pointed at where the other kids were disappearing in the distance. “Imagine someone who could take your friends away, just because you’d been talking to them. And not just send them to their rooms, but make them suffer more than any humans ever had, torture them, destroy them, just because they didn’t treat you like shit.” He could hear the panic climbing into his own voice, and there was no stopping it now. “And it would be _your fault._ Your fault for believing that you _deserved_ that, that you were _worthy_ of having one being in all the universe care for you, that you could be happy for _one bloody minute_ without it being ripped out of you.”

He couldn’t even breathe now, but the words kept coming. “Imagine being powerless to protect the people around you, because the ones who want to hurt them are stronger than you’ll ever be. Imagine they can kill you, slowly, over the course of centuries, for the crime of having one independent thought, one wish that didn’t conform to their plan for you. And imagine thinking it will _never stop,_ that you’ll never be able to be safe. That it can’t even end in your death because you don’t die you just go on and on and _on,_ terrified, hurting _forever.”_

The look on Adam’s face finally registered. He looked almost as scared and overwhelmed as he had at the airfield – and just as desperate to find a solution.

What the Heaven was he putting on this child? This was too much for any human. Too much even for a demon.

Crowley took a deep breath, letting the cold air sear his lungs. It made him feel worse, but in a way, that made him feel better. “Don’t worry about it, kid. This isn’t something you can fix. Just…don’t pretend to know why we made the choices we did.” He walked on through the muddy valley.

After a moment, Adam caught up. “You’re safe now, you know. They won’t come for you, not ever. I saw to that.”

_“Not ever_ is a really long time. Longer than you’ll be alive.” Crowley looked ahead, where he could see some trees gathered on one of the hills on the right-hand side. “But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Three children and a dog were running back towards them, the girl in the lead. “Adam! Adam, I think we found it. It’s brilliant!”

Crowley turned to Adam, raising his eyebrow. “Think you can do some of those things you don’t do anymore?”

Adam smiled. “I can make an exception.”

\--

Even though Adam did most of the work, it was the other three who fell asleep on the ride back. Even the dog settled down, curled up across as many laps as possible.

“Thank you,” Crowley grumbled. “For what you did today. I don’t say that much. But thanks.”

Adam just nodded, watching the stars come out.

“Those things you said before. About universes. Is it important?”

“Could be.”

Another silence that went on a little too long. “Well, come on, let’s hear it.”

“Well, if it’s true that every choice you make creates a universe,” he started slowly, shifting in his seat, “what does that mean for free will? If in every universe, you go out for oysters, does that mean it was a rule of the universe, something you had to do? If in one universe you go to Venice and another you don’t, did you make a choice, or did the universe choose for you, one of each version? Do we ever have a choice in what we do?”

“The Ineffable Plan.” Crowley’s lips twisted over the words. He hated it. “Never heard it that way before, though. Never seen any other universes.”

“You wouldn’t. They don’t really branch, see. They started at the same point, and they all meet at the end, but in between they don’t actually touch. They each play out their own story.”

“Do they?” Crowley turned this over in his mind. “It sounds like you know something I don’t.”

“I do.” Adam glanced over, smirking just a little. “But I suppose I don’t know everything.”

“It seems to me, though, that if they don’t touch, if they don’t branch, then we still get to make our choices. If none of the other Crowleys go to Venice, it doesn’t change my choice, because their path never crosses mine.”

“So, you still have free will.”

“Well, I brought it into this world. I’m not ready to give it up yet.” He gave Adam a long hard look, the kind that usually made Aziraphale very nervous, if only because his eyes were nowhere near the road. “You’re very intellectual for a child. Were you always like this?”

“Not really. I’ve had a lot to think about lately.”

“It seems to me, if you’re asking questions about Plans and free will, you’re still thinking about what happened at the airbase.” Adam didn’t say a word. “And, possibly, you’re thinking that what you did wasn’t as permanent as you hoped.”

“I don’t see everything as clearly as I did then. What if I made a mistake? What if I missed something? What if what I did was exactly what they wanted?”

“I don’t think it was.” Crowley smiled.

“I think I’m going to have more questions. Once I’ve thought everything through.”

“I can’t promise I’ll have any answers. But you’ll know where to find me.”

* * *

**3\. The Ghost of Christmas Future**

The kitchen was gleamingly new, but somehow old at the same time. Gas stove. Granite countertop. A long dining room table, large enough for more friends than Crowley had ever had, currently set for two. A smaller table in a nook by the window, looking out into the forest where a perfect gleaming snow promised just the right crunch under boots. It had been sent along by one who Doesn’t Do That Anymore.

Crowley was going down the checklist given to him by the most human minds he could find. Tree, check. Candles, check. Roaring fire, check. The ornaments were exactly as described. The presents underneath contained significantly fewer robots than suggested, but he thought improvisation there was a good idea.

There was a gingerbread house that he’d built by hand, even though he didn’t think it was necessary. The dinner was simplified, but had all the major features. The cookies were baking in the oven, five minutes to go.

There was a chime, like a doorbell, but softer. A distinct note, nothing at all like the sound of an angel arriving. He’d been very specific on that.

Checking the oven one last time, he hurried out the door and into the cold. He wouldn’t want to miss this.

\--

Aziraphale puffed his way up the path on the side of the valley. It wasn’t as steep as it looked, but it was still a bit more trying than expected, not helped by the rather unexpected snowfall and the very sharp breeze.

He wasn’t sure why he’d arrived so far down the valley from the location Crowley gave. It happened, sometimes, but there didn’t seem to be any cause. Still, it wasn’t a terrible evening for a stroll; he just wished he knew his destination.

At the top of the hill, he found the dark figure of Crowley, wearing a much thicker coat than usual. It made Aziraphale shiver just to look at it, but he said nothing, just turning up the warm glow within himself. It didn’t help much.

“Well, my dear fellow, I’m here. Why exactly have you dragged me out to the middle of nowhere on Christmas Eve?”

“Not _nowhere,”_ Crowley corrected. “The South Downs. It’s called Devils Dyke.”

Aziraphale endeavored to look as disapproving as possible.

“It’s supposed to be quite lovely in the spring,” Crowley added, as if that made up for the current freezing conditions.

Aziraphale crossed his arms, struggling to keep from shivering. “Why is it suddenly so cold?”

Crowley pulled off his jacket, and offered it. A kind gesture, but of course it didn’t fit – Aziraphale could barely drape it across his shoulders comfortably. “Just follow me, Angel, it isn’t far.”

The snow was thick enough to hide any trace of a path, but Crowley’s footsteps were still clear, twisting and curving through the sunset woods. The demon practically bounced at his side, peering ahead every few seconds. There was something ahead, but Aziraphale couldn’t quite make it out.

Then he could, and it stopped him in his tracks.

The cottage looked just as had on the Christmas card.

The white walls, the red door. Towering pine trees on every side, heavy with the freshly fallen snow. The sun had just set, leaving the sky a deep purple with just a hint of orange. As he watched, a bright red bird settled in the tree nearest the chimney, which was billowing smoke.

The golden light from the windows seemed the warmest thing he’d ever seen.

“Oh! Oh, my dear, how did you ever find such a place? I…I never thought it was real.”

“It wasn’t. Long story.” They stood there so long, Aziraphale entirely forgot to be cold, until a warm hand wrapped around his. “Let me show you inside.”

The inside wasn’t exactly as Aziraphale had imagined, but it was beautiful nonetheless. A picture-perfect Christmas scene, from the eight-foot tree topped by a star to the row of nutcrackers across the mantel. The air was mixed with the scents of pine, chestnuts, and something else. The furniture was a rather bizarre mix of styles, but the armchairs looked soft and perfectly worn in, the carpets plush and thick. A tartan blanket draped across the back of a sofa, and the plants on the windowsill had matching pots.

It looked like home.

His heart aching, Aziraphale finally turned to Crowley, who was watching his face with rapt attention, glasses nowhere to be seen. “Oh. Oh, my dear Crowley, I know you did all this, but _how?”_

“Well –” Suddenly his eyes went wide. Aziraphale’s heart leapt into his throat, a familiar feeling of fear growing inside.

But somehow, even though it was certainly the same look of panic Aziraphale had seen so often over thousands of years, there was something different – as if the tension behind it was gone.

“Oh, blast!” The demon raced over to the stove and threw it open, unleashing a rather impressive cloud of smoke, sticking in his hand – then jerking it back out again. “Nope, ow, where’s that oven mitt?”

It was so strange. To see all that frantic energy, yet not be afraid. It was… _funny._ Aziraphale couldn’t stop laughing.

Eventually, the demon tossed down a baking sheet covered with thoroughly burnt sugar cookies. “Well, that’s dessert ruined.”

“Oh, just…” Aziraphale snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. “Crowley, what…?”

“I can explain!” Crowley rushed back over, hands up in a soothing gesture. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to – it’s just a lot. Take a seat, try some dinner. I made it myself.”

The long table was set with two plates, a pair of candles, and between them – Aziraphale’s Christmas card.

Christmas dinner turned out to be pre-cooked chicken breast, tinned vegetables, and potatoes that had come from a box.

It was the best dinner Aziraphale had ever eaten.

And all while he ate, Crowley told the story.

How, after four months of trying – and failing – to learn not to look over their shoulders, he’d decided the only way they would ever feel safe was if they built a sanctuary of their own.

How he’d enlisted the help of the one being who could hold back the forces of Heaven and Hell.

How they’d searched for and found the perfect location – secluded, quiet, detached from the world, and breathtakingly beautiful.

How Adam had manifested not just the cottage, but all the protections they would need.

“It’s something entirely new,” Crowley explained. “It’s a bubble around the cottage, going out a quarter-mile in every direction. Anyone who steps in it – occult, ethereal, whatever – no more powers.”

“What?” Aziraphale dropped his fork. “How?”

“Adam.” Crowley shrugged. “I mean, we’re still what we are. Angel, demon. Not aging, not needing to eat or sleep. But so long as we’re inside this circle, we can’t perform any miracles. And neither can anyone who tries to come for us.”

“Not…not anyone?”

“Adam can. Possibly Satan. Almost certainly God. But no one else.”

Crowley reached out again for Aziraphale’s hand, covering it with his own. “Angel. I…I never understood why you liked this picture so much.” He pointed to the little drawing of the cottage. “We had everything we could want in London. The restaurants, the parks. The bookshop. Why would you ever exchange that for somewhere so _quiet?_ But I get it now. It was never about the place. It was about feeling safe. You wanted to be safe. And I never thought of it that way because, well, I didn’t think it was possible.”

Crowley cleared his throat, eyes falling for a second, then rising to meet Aziraphale’s again. “And, well, Adam didn’t think he could set something like this up in the middle of London. Too many variables. So this is the next best thing.” Aziraphale’s heart raced. “I promise you. We’re safe here. You’re safe here. For as long as you want to be. Adam said he’s pretty sure this protection will last for millennia if we need it. I know it’s sudden, but…do you could be happy here? With me?”

One half of Aziraphale’s mind was racing over the room again, picturing every strand of garland, every pillow on the sofa, imagining himself learning to cook, reading in the summer sunlight, going for walks through the autumn leaves. The other half was still stuck on the last eight words Crowley had said. “Are you…asking me to marry you?”

“No. Yes. Shit! That was supposed to come later!” Crowley stumbled out of his chair and dropped to his knee, searching his pockets. “I know I have – there!” He thrust his clenched fist in the general direction of Aziraphale’s heart. “Yes. Alright. _Now_ I’m asking you to marry me.”

Slowly, the angel pulled the small red box out of his hand, turned it right-side up, and opened it. The ring was simple, just an undecorated band, platinum white.

“The kids all insisted there had to be a ring, but they couldn’t agree on what kind. Well. The boys insisted. Pepper said marriage is a tool of the patriarchy and that engagement rings are a fantasy created by the diamond companies to sell useless rocks.” Crowley’s lips quirked into a smile. “Don’t tell the others, but she’s my favorite.”

“Crowley, I…” tears pricked in his eyes. “I don’t know…”

“Please say yes. I think I have to keep kneeling forever if you don’t say yes.”

“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale stood up, pulling Crowley after him. “Yes, of course, yes!” He fell into his demon’s arms, held him close, until all he could hear was the almost-human sound of two hearts beating together. “I just…I sometimes thought you didn’t…”

“I was scared,” Crowley said, voice trembling. “I was always so afraid. I couldn’t say anything until I knew we were safe. Until I could keep you safe.”

“You idiot,” Aziraphale half-laughed, half-sobbed into his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have waited. You have always been the one place I’ve felt safe.”

They held on for a long time, neither wanting to be the first to pull away.

“Do you want to see the rest of…of our new home?” Crowley finally whispered.

“I would love that.”

“The greenhouse is out back. And there’s a library upstairs. It’s not as big as I wanted, but Adam couldn’t get the hang of non-Euclidean geometry…”

Hand in hand, they settled into their new life, and began to exorcise the ghosts of their fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Originally posted [to my Tumblr!](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189845328522/safety)
> 
> This story is the last complete story in "Boundless Love" - the final chapter and epilogue will be posted when I have a chance (tonight, or this weekend). Thank you so much to everyone who came on this journey! Your encouragement has meant everything to me.
> 
> (No history notes this time, as I could probably write a dozen books on the subject of "what was going on in Italy in the 15th century?" and everything else has already been covered.)


	18. Boundless Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 25 - Love

**Some people think that every choice we make creates a universe.**

**This is only partly correct.**

\--

The fifth night of the festival of Saturnalia, long after even the most determined revelers in Rome had gone to sleep, an angel and a demon stood on a rooftop patio, overlooking the quiet mountainside.

“I think I love you,” Aziraphale said, abruptly, without preamble.

Crowley turned to him, mouth wide, too breathless to respond.

“I’m not…I don’t know whether one can ever be _sure_ in such matters,” Aziraphale hurried on. “It’s a _human_ emotion, after all. Angels weren’t _made_ to love one being above all others. And yet, I think I do.” He smiled at Crowley, as if what he’d said was of only passing interest. “To be honest, I don’t know what to do with this information just yet.”

Crowley moved a little closer, leaned against the raised lip of the patio. “Could be problematic. If your side finds out. I don’t imagine they would approve.”

“No, you’re probably right.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Perhaps not.” Aziraphale stared eastward, waiting for the sunrise. “I suppose I thought you had a right to know. Is that not how this works?”

“Could be. I’m not really an expert, either. Demons aren’t supposed to love anyone at all.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale nodded. Already the sky was beginning to lighten.

“Which makes it a bit troublesome, because I am almost certainly in love, too.”

Crowley shot a glance sideways, watched Aziraphale bite his lip, nod seriously.

“I understand. This person you’re in love with.” His eyes drifted over. “It’s Caligula, isn’t it?”

“Oh, don’t you –”

Aziraphale burst into laughter at the look on Crowley’s face, even as the demon reached over, pulled him close, held him tight.

“I love you,” the angel whispered, pressing lips to his neck, his jaw, his cheek. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” As if the fervent whispers, the beating of his heart, could stop the coming dawn.

\--

**Each of the infinite universes starts at the same point; they all meet again at the end.**

**In between, they never touch, never cross, never affect the others in any way. Each plays out its own story, independently.**

**An infinite number of earths, crossing six thousand years of history. An infinite number of Heavens and Hells, fighting behind the scenes in ways humans can’t comprehend.**

**And in every universe, there is a demon who asks too many questions, and an angel who doesn’t always obey.**

**\--**

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, eyes wide, balanced on the branch of the apple tree. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m sorry, my love,” the angel said with deadly cold eyes. “But this is the way it has to be. Warriors, attack!”

And the platoon of children pelted the evil spirit with snowballs until he fell to the ground, gasping with exaggerated agony.

The angel bent over the fallen figure, inspecting his enemy, and Crowley reached up, grabbing him, pulling him to the ground, burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck.

“My _love,_ you say? My _love?_ Don’t use that word if you don’t mean it, Angel. You’ll find me quite –”

His rant was rudely cut off by a small child shoving a fistful of snow down the back of Crowley’s shirt. “If you two don’t stop _kissing_ after every tree, this is gonna take all _night.”_

\--

**Why do they always find each other?**

**Why do they always cling to each other?**

**Despite infinite universes seeking to tear them apart, why do they always fall in love?**

\--

Aziraphale collapsed across the sofa, head and shoulders wedged into the corner, too exhausted to even keep himself upright. The long black serpent lay on his stomach, watching him intently.

“Oh, Crowley,” he tried to keep his voice steady, despite the tears he could no longer hold in. “You were wrong. It _was_ my fault. I’ve – I’ve worked it out now. Obvious, really. Serpent. Human. Two corporations, woven together.” His voice started to crack. “When we changed places I…I sort of dropped a corner. Let one bleed into the other. I – I’m so sorry.”

Crowley took a moment, processing this. “Accccident.”

“Yes, but I…” He held out a hand. Crowley didn’t like to be scratched, or petted, or held. But he did glide across the hand, bringing his snout closer to the angel’s tear-streaked face. “I could have killed you, Crowley. I could have destroyed you over something so…so foolishly simple. You must hate me.”

“No. Nevvver.”

He wiped furiously at his eyes with his free hand. They itched with fatigue as they never had before. “I’m almost there, Crowley. Just a little more. I can see where I dropped it. I can see how to separate them again. I just…just need to figure out how to secure the ends, so it doesn’t happen again.” The sobs broke through again. “I’m nearly there, my love. I’m nearly there.”

“Resssst.”

“I can’t. Not when I’m so close. Crowley I…I need you back. I want to see you human again. And I know you hate this, I won’t leave you in this form a moment longer than necessary, I just…”

“Ssssleeep.” Crowley retreated, coiling up on Aziraphale’s chest. “Ssssleeep. Lovvvve. Sssssleeeep.”

Aziraphale drifted off under that watchful golden gaze, allowing his mind the rest it needed to put the last few pieces together.

\--

**You could call it fate. You could call it part of the Plan.**

**Something written into them, a command on their souls drawing them together.**

**Something in their makeup that leaves each incomplete, threatens to destroy them when apart.**

**You would be wrong.**

\--

A fight at an airbase, a long bus ride, not a word spoken after _we’re on our own side._

And after more than twenty-six centuries, Aziraphale found himself again standing beside Crowley’s bed. Not a pile of furs this time, but cotton sheets, black as night.

Crowley pulled off his glasses, met Aziraphale’s eyes, and nodded.

Almost without a thought, their bodies found the familiar position, as if they had only left the Celtic roundhouse the day before: lying facing each other, eyes locked, hands entwined. Bare inches apart, as if the queen-sized mattress were a narrow sleeping platform.

Nothing had changed, save that this time it was Crowley who trembled.

“I’m right here,” Aziraphale whispered, running his thumb across Crowley’s fingers. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“It might. What if they come while I’m asleep?”

“I’ll wake you. Come what may, we’ll face it together.”

“You won’t leave?” Crowley knew the answer, but he needed to hear it out loud.

“I made that mistake once, twenty-six centuries ago. I thought I knew what was important. I was a fool. But I know better now.” He released Crowley’s hand and slowly, hesitantly, slid his arm around the demon’s waist. He’d never done this while awake before.

Crowley melted into it, moving closer, pressing his head into Aziraphale’s throat. “Angel. I’m sorry. I never should have –”

“You did what I asked of you. It was my mistake. But I will never, ever leave again. I promise.”

“I loved you, Aziraphale. Even back then, I already loved you.”

“I know. I loved you, too. I just refused to admit it.” They held each other tighter, as if they were always meant to fit together like this. “Rest now. I’ll think of something.”

\--

**An angel who does what he thinks is right, no matter what he is ordered to do.**

**A demon who rebels against everything, even the rebellion itself.**

**If you tried to force them together, you would fail utterly.**

**They go only where they choose.**

\--

Crowley woke before the dreams of fire could begin, Aziraphale leaning over him, shaking him gently.

“You don’t have to do that every time,” he muttered, but didn’t pull away. “You can just leave.”

Aziraphale responded as he always did, in a calm, even voice: “I do it because I love you, and you’re safe.”

“Fine, you don’t have to _say_ that every time.”

“I say it because I love you, and you’re safe.” His hand still rested on Crowley’s shoulder. “And I will keep saying both until I’m sure you believe me.”

The demon shifted under the blankets. Aziraphale’s latest idea: breaking the sleep cycle, waking him before the terrors could begin, training his mind to a new rhythm. They would talk briefly, then allow Crowley to drift off again in half an hour. “How will we even know if it’s working?”

“It _is_ working. Your eyes are back to normal. When you have a terror at all, it only lasts a few minutes. You very rarely have flashbacks during the day. I know you can’t see it, but it is working.”

“Will I ever be better?” He could see how the weight of caring for him wore on Aziraphale, even if the angel never said a word.

“I don’t know. A human could carry this trauma the rest of their life; it’s generally about managing symptoms rather than finding a cure. But you are a demon. Who can say? I just know, I will keep trying as long as it takes, because I love –”

“Yes, I know.” Crowley grumbled, embarrassed, not quite meeting his eyes. “I love you too, you old sap.”

\--

**That, perhaps, is the secret.**

**In an infinite number of universes, under an infinite variety of circumstances, the two beings who never quite fit anywhere will choose each other, again and again, every time.**

**Never mind the dangers. Never mind the difficulties.**

**They choose each other, cling to each other, heal each other.**

**The words they fear to say spill out in other ways, weaving themselves into the world.**

**_I love you. I love you._ **

**Pulsing through the roots and branches of the ancient chestnut tree, pounding through the hearts of the two beings walking through the grove.**

\--

1967\. The telephone rang at 7:43 PM. Crowley had just about convinced himself the call would never come. Now he pounced on it, lifting it before the first ring even ended, hardly able to choke out a greeting.

“– infernal, blasted device. _Can anyone hear me?_ I’m trying to reach Crowley, Anthony Crowley, he’s been waiting for my call all day, but this wretched machine only makes incomprehensible noises! Oh, he’ll think I’m sulking, or angry, and he’ll disappear on me again, as if I haven’t been so worried about him I can hardly think straight. Connect me right now or the wrath I visit upon you and all your kind will –”

“Angel?”

A very long silence.

“Crowley? Oh, dear. How…long have you been listening?”

“Were you…trying to threaten the telephone?”

“Perhaps?” Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried for his angry, blustery tone again. “This horrible contraption is not even remotely easy to use, despite what you told me –”

“I worried about you, too.”

Another silence. So long Crowley began to panic that the line had somehow disconnected.

“Ah.”

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know what to say.” The voice on the line was much softer now. “I don’t think we should. These things are not…not safe to talk about.” An awkward throat clearing. “But yes. Someday, I very much think I would.”

“When you’re ready,” Crowley said, quietly, gently. “I’ll be waiting.”

\--

**They say it in actions.**

**A wordless song raised in a Garden.**

**_I see your pain. I’ll show you mine. Hear me. Help me. Love me._ **

**A hundred healing kisses pressed to the skin.**

**_I hurt you. Forgive me. I love you._ **

**A warm drink by the fire and friendly company on a snowy morning.**

**_Let me help you. Let me comfort you. I love you._ **

**The smooth motion of thumbs on the soles of feet, every weekend, for as many weekends as were left to the world.**

**_I love you. Don’t leave me. I love you._ **

\--

  1. The phone rang at 10:08 PM.The demon stumbled out of bed, shooing the spiders away, snatching up the handset on the third ring.



“Yes? Who – yes?”

He relaxed. “Angel. Still haven’t gone back to London?” A pause. “Because the time zones go the other way, idiot. It’s the middle of the night here.”

He listened for a bit, teeth clenched anxiously. “You aren’t going to get in trouble, are you? Going over your healing quota?” Crowley nodded, even though he was alone. “Fine, just, you know. Be smart. Don’t take any stupid risks.”

He smiled a little. “No, a new hotel every night is exactly the right thing. Have you been reading spy novels again?” Raised eyebrows. “Oh, really? What kind of mystery have you encountered, Aziraphale?”

Crowley settled back on the edge of the bed as he listened. “Well, yeah, the television does play movies, that’s the point… _Exactly_ two minutes every time? But different parts? Are you sure it’s the same movie?” He bit his lip as he realized what was going on, struggling not to laugh. “No, no, keep taking notes. You’ll figure it out…Yeah, I definitely want to hear the saga of the pizza boy and the babysitter when you’re done.”

The conversation went on, as it did every Thursday, a chronicle of the boring minutiae of life – plans, complaints, grumblings about the state of the food – but neither voice could quite hide the warmth behind every word.

“Yeah. No. Talk to you next week. I’m looking forward to it.”

\--

**They say it in gifts.**

**A branch of pine. A remembered song. A clasp of hands on a bus.**

**_Be happy. Be safe. I love you._ **

**A meal delivered just in time. A friendly face amidst soul-crushing loneliness.**

**_Don’t give up. I need you. I love you._ **

**Forty pairs of tickets to a ballet. A letter. An apology. A wish.**

**_Stay with me. I miss you. I love you._ **

\--

An angel and a demon walked together towards the Ritz, after a body swap and a narrow escape. Blue eyes turned towards a dark figure, again and again, sly as a puppy and just as sweet.

“So, my dear, do you suppose it’s safe to try flirting _now?”_

“It could still be dangerous. Especially for you. But I suppose I can’t stop you if you want to try.”

“Well then. Crowley.” The eyes batted as if there was an eyelash caught in them. “I like your…face.”

And Crowley grabbed his lapels, slammed him back against the nearest wall, and kissed him in broad daylight until his legs gave out. Aziraphale clung to him, dragging hands through red hair, kissing back for all he was worth.

When they finally parted, gasping for breath, Aziraphale chuckled. “And I thought you didn’t want a snog in a back alley.”

“This is a main road, Angel. And I said I wanted you, forever.” Sharp nose brushed along the curve of a jaw. “You’re in my clutches now. I will never, ever let you go.”

“Oooh. Promise?” Aziraphale winked with both eyes.

Crowley groaned, burying his face in his angel’s shoulder. “How are you the absolute _worst_ flirt to ever exist?”

“Worst? Or best?” Soft arms wrapped around the narrow waist, pulling him close. “After all, I have a 100% success rate. Cassanova wishes he was as good as me.”

“You are an _idiot.”_

“I love you too, dear.”

\--

**Through every difficulty, every danger, they survive, they save each other, they build a life.**

**An angel and a demon, again and again, bound together not by the ties of fate or a Plan they do not understand.**

**Because love is not something you can command.**

**Love is a choice.**

**Love is a decision to reach out, to comfort, to communicate, to make a connection and then build it, maintain it, protect it, help it to bloom.**

\--

An angel and a demon walked hand in hand through the woods surrounding their cottage on Christmas morning.

“Are you sure you can be happy here?” Crowley wondered, glancing anxiously to the side as they followed the snow-covered path.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale responded with some exasperation. “There is no place in the world I would rather be than at your side. I would rather eat runny eggs and burnt toast prepared by you than dine at the finest restaurant. I have seen the seven wonders of the world and I prefer to walk through your gardens. I have stood before the greatest artworks ever created and they don’t compare to your smile. I will absolutely be happy here, and my answer will not change in a day, or a month, or a century.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“Because, my dear, my darling idiot, we’ve been married for over a decade!” He stood, Crowley’s face cradled in his hands, giving him his sternest glare. “Are you ever going to stop asking me that stupid question?”

Crowley just grinned. “Probably not. I don’t think I’m going to get sick of the answer any time soon.” He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, pulled him close, whispered in his ear. “I don’t regret anything, you know. Not one day, not one argument, not one stupid decision in six thousand years. Because it brought us here, where we belong.”

The angel sighed, leaning into the embrace. “Do you think, if things had been different, we still would have fallen in love?”

“No idea.” He pressed a kiss against Aziraphale’s forehead. “Though if you really want to get into that, talk to Adam. He’s on the whole alternate universes thing again. Apparently, we’re the ultimate proof of his theories on the triumph of free will and the continuity of _self_ across infinite iterations.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“I haven’t a bloody clue! You’re supposed to be the clever one.” Turning back towards the cottage, Crowley offered his arm and Aziraphale rested his hands on it, pulling close so they were enveloped in each other's warmth. “That kid is too smart for his own good.”

“He’s hardly a child anymore. None of them are.” Aziraphale turned the ideas over in his head as they walked. “I suppose I will ask him about it when they arrive. If he thinks it’s important, it probably is.”

“Good. I should have just enough time to burn the potatoes down to charcoal.”

“Crowley, you could try _not_ ruining some part of Christmas dinner. Just for a change.”

“What? And break our oldest holiday tradition?”

\--

**In an infinite number of universes, an angel and a demon have every opportunity to give up, to walk away, to protect their own existence.**

**The angel could choose, at any time, to obey, to keep himself safe.**

**The demon could fall in line, behave as expected, and accept the role he was given.**

**And yet, over and over –**

**They choose humanity.**

**They choose each other.**

**They choose love.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all! Thank you all for reading!
> 
> This story was originally posted[ to my Tumblr.](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/189899234032/boundless-love?is_related_post=1)
> 
> It also inspired [this lovely bit of fanart](https://viggstardoesart.tumblr.com/post/189910757664/a-drawing-in-tribute-to-a-long-fanfic-written) by @viggstardoesart.
> 
> I am so grateful to all my readers, both here and on Tumblr! Your support has kept me going, but I believe now is the time for a well-deserved nap. ;) Follow me on Tumblr for more Good Omens content (possibly some Doctor Who? We'll see how the season goes...) and for updates on my WIPs.
> 
> Thank you again!


	19. Ectotherm - Conclusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret Bonus Chapter (not that secret).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much demand from my readers (and my mom), I have written a HAPPY conclusion to Ectotherm. If you prefer the more ambiguous ending, you can skip this. As it stands at 1600+ words, it was too long to include in the "epilogue" chapter. But this is how I'd envisioned it going down...

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

The angel had spent the morning carving lines and curves deep into the wooden floor, until Crowley could feel every scratch and dip through the sensitive skin of his belly. Now the angel was trying to keep him at the center of the pattern, while he ran around the edge doing – _something_.

There was a heat lamp, but it was too far away. Why wasn’t he under it?

Crowley started sliding across the floor, coiling and uncoiling in the direction of that delicious, life-giving heat –

The angel suddenly loomed before him, hands flapping. “No, no! I told…the center…few more minutes.”

A few minutes? Crowley was cold _now._ He wound to the side, planning to dart around, but the angel’s feet suddenly shifted, coming down sharply in his path.

Startled, Crowley reared up, nearly as tall as the angel, to _hisssss_ from his maximum height, head flattened, vision suddenly clear enough to see the angel’s face: eyes wide, jaw tight. Frightened. Crowley gave another _hisssss,_ hoping that would be enough to scare the interloper away, clear a path to the heat.

But the angel merely raised his hands, moving more slowly this time. “…sorry, my…adjust the lamp…break the circle now…start all over…” The words were murky, distorted, most of them too low or soft to be perceived. “…explained…ten minutes ago…remember?”

Ten minutes? That was a long time.

No, no it wasn’t. The cold was just making his mind fuzzy again. He gave another longing look at the heat lamp, then at another, further away, tucked safely in a corner where he could bask _and_ hide. He felt exposed, anxious, very much in danger. What if this was some kind of trap?

Then he looked again at the angel’s face. Not frightened. Worried. Sad. Tired.

Crowley trusted Aziraphale. He couldn’t remember precisely why, but it was undeniable – a deep, profound trust. If Aziraphale said he had to stay here, stay he would.

“Fasssssster,” Crowley grumbled, and twisted back to where he’d been before. A moment later, the light from the heat lamp grew a little warmer. Still not quite enough, but better.

Two more slow circuits around the marks on the floor, adjusting things and muttering, and finally the angel sat down, facing Crowley. He held out his arms, but Crowley was in no mood to be handled, pulling back into his coils.

“I need…preferably your face.” Crowley flicked his tongue, but otherwise didn’t move. “ _Please_ …”

Reluctantly, the black and red snake moved closer, lifted his head until the angel could cup his jaw with burning-hot hands. He didn’t like it and pulled away, fighting the urge to retreat.

 _Necessary, this is necessary._ He tried to relax into the contact, tried to pretend it didn’t feel _wrong._

The angel’s blue eyes fluttered shut; Crowley could just make out the tense wrinkles forming in his brow, but the stiffness in the fingers around the snake’s jaw was unmistakable. It wasn’t enough to be painful, but it was close. Crowley’s back half twisted and writhed as if ready to pull away, even while he focused his entire being on keeping his head still. _Necessary. Trust him. It’s necessary._

Finally, the angel’s hands fell away, and he dropped back, breathing heavily. His eyes opened and he smiled. “…finished.”

Good.

Crowley turned and slithered under the heat lamp, stretching out for maximum comfort.

Just as he was settling in for a good late-morning nap, the angel appeared beside him again. “…you hear…finished…”

 _Now_ what? Perhaps he _should_ go find one of the more secluded lamps, to avoid interruptions.

“…fixed you…”

Shrugging off the nap for the moment, Crowley raised his head just enough to tip it to the side. Fixed…?

The angel knelt at the edge of the heat lamp’s warmth, and spoke again, much louder. “…fixed…change back…”

Crowley tilted his head the other way. Change _back…?_

“Human! Crowley, _human.”_

It all came back in a rush. Arms. Legs. _Hands._ Drinking strange red water, watching birds swim, moving very fast in a large black box which made the angel very angry – _human._

He reared up again.

Nothing changed.

“Hhhhhow?”

The angel shook his head, mouth working, but Crowley couldn’t hear a sound. He pushed closer, far closer than was comfortable, until the heat pits of his face were filled with the angel’s warmth, until he could see the tears gathering in blue eyes.

Crowley focused on those eyes, that shape, on every part of his life in human form that he could still make sense of.

Still no change.

Hissing with frustration, he abandoned the warmth of the heat lamp, shooting away to weave among the plants, drape himself across the sofa, even nudge his face at an open book.

No effect at all.

_He couldn’t remember how to change back._

As he circled the shop again – feeling his energy sap away in the cold – he noticed the angel sitting once again at his desk. Crowley climbed up his leg, across his back, draped over his shoulders and around his chest. Felt the pure warmth, cleaner and sweeter than sunlight.

The angel wasn’t working now, of course; his chair was pointed away from the desk, as if to avoid even looking at the piles of paper. He clutched something in his hands, shoulders heaving, chest shaking with sobs. “I’m sorry…I tried…I tried so hard, but I couldn’t…I’m too late.” The voice was a little clearer now, rumbling through Crowley’s belly.

“Sssshhhhhh,” Crowley comforted as best he could, trying to nestle his head on the angel’s arms. It wasn’t a gesture he was comfortable with, but he could remember now that arms, hands, were important. Perhaps if he could get closer…

“If I hadn’t been so foolish…oh, my love…I failed you…”

But Crowley wasn’t listening. He was looking at what the angel held in his hands. He was looking at –

“Glassssssesss.”

“Wh – what?”

“Glassssess.” Crowley nudged at the angel’s hands until they parted, revealing a pair of black lenses held by silver frames. “Pleassse. Glassessss.”

It wasn’t easy to put a pair of sunglasses onto a snake’s head, even one so large as Crowley. They dangled rather uselessly down either side of his jaw, the lenses didn’t exactly cover his eyes, and where they did the world became a murky black soup he had no hope of seeing. But it felt… _right._

He turned, trying to face the angel, but somehow lost his balance and tumbled to the floor.

“Crowley? Are you… _Crowley?”_

The voice was too crisp, too sharp, to rich. It was startling.

He shook his head and hissed, but it sounded strange. Thick. His tongue couldn’t get out because there were too many teeth.

Crowley blinked. Not because he had to, but because he suddenly realized he had _eyelids._

A hand drifted over and adjusted the glasses, settling them correctly over the ears and across the nose – no that was _his_ hand, _his_ fingers.

His eyes drifted up and he was shocked at how clearly he could see the angel standing over him, looking more pale, more drawn, and just a bit thinner than he remembered, clothes a rumpled mess, eyes red.

“Aziraphale?”

“Crowley!”

Two arms suddenly around his shoulders, pulling him up onto legs he barely remembered how to use, wrapping around him, pulling him into the indescribable softness of Aziraphale’s embrace. It took him a moment to remember that he had arms of his own, that he could twist them, twine them, pull Aziraphale even closer.

He could still feel Aziraphale’s warmth pressing into his chest and stomach, but it no longer felt like a blazing fire, or the strange glow of life-giving heat. It was simply a body, pressed close to his. Two bodies trembling, shaking, shoulders heaving, breath ragged.

Aziraphale was still crying, still mumbling apologies into the demon’s shoulder.

Crowley was laughing.

They didn’t let each other go for a long, long time.

–-

Crowley was warm.

No, Crowley was _happy._

It wasn’t as easy to fit both bodies on the sofa in this form, but they managed – Aziraphale stretched out, Crowley, lying across his chest, legs in a tangle, head tucked against his throat, listening to the sigh of breath, the rumble of heartbeat.

They hadn’t talked about it. Aziraphale had finally admitted to being tired, and they just found themselves here as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I suppose I’ve gotten used to this,” murmured Aziraphale, who never used to lie on his own sofa, trembling fingers tracing through Crowley’s hair.

“I’m used to it, too,” he mumbled back, but _used to it_ didn’t begin to describe it. This was _right,_ this was _home,_ and he knew it was more than a leftover serpentine instinct to bask that had brought him here, that would keep bringing him here for as long as Aziraphale would allow it.

Aziraphale’s right hand was still twined with Crowley’s left, resting on the angel’s chest. Crowely couldn’t stop studying it, turning it, running his thumb across fingers and knuckles and nails. He could feel more than just heat now, he could feel the softness, the rough callus on the side of one finger where Aziraphale rested his pencil as he wrote, the faint hard edges of papercuts. It was an entire world to explore, that hand, full of more wonder than Crowley had ever suspected.

“Might be more comfortable in a bed,” Aziraphale whispered, clearly already on the edge of sleep.

“I’ve got a bed,” Crowley said idly, still looking at the broken edges of Aziraphale’s nails. He’d never seen them like that before. Aziraphale had kept them perfectly manicured since the _invention_ of manicures. “Lots of space, too. More than I can use. But then, all my plants are already here…” He trailed off, realizing what he was saying.

“Mmh,” was Aziraphale’s only reply. The fingers combing through Crowley’s hair were now almost still.

“S’alright, Angel. You rest. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thanks to all the fans who asked for this. It took a few tries to get something I was satisfied with, but I hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> Tumblr version can be [found here.](https://aethelflaedladyofmercia.tumblr.com/post/190605357832/ectotherm-conclusion)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This has been a very long, very exhausting journey (25 days of writing - averaging 2,000+ words a day!), but I'm happy with the end result. I hope you enjoy my stories! Comments are always appreciated.
> 
> For those looking for more Sawdust of Words...these are what I wrote instead of the next story in the series. Sorry! But I'll get back to work once I've had a short rest. :)


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